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BIOGRAPHY 



OF 



THE LATE 



MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. 



BIOGRAPHY 



AND 



POETICAL REMAINS 



OP THE LATE 



MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON. 



BY WASHINGTON IRVING. 



Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay, 
For sin too pure, for earth too bright I 

And Death, who call'd thee hence away. 
Placed on his brow a gem of light ! 

Margaret to her Sister. 



Wxli HltftlOIT. 
PHILADELPHIA: 

LEA AND BLANCH A RD. 
1842. 



r-^ 






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\%'\^ 



Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year one thousand 
eight hundred and forty-one, by Washington Irving, in the Clerk's Office 
of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of 
New York. 

Gift from 

fl^nk B.& Florence W.Conger 

July 12 1932 



C. Sherman & Co. Printers. 



CONTENTS. 



Biography, ----.. 9 

Remains, ------ 153 

A Tale, written at the age of fifteen, - - - 155 

Poetical Remains, ----- 185 

To my Mother, - - - - - - 185 

Pride and Modesty, ----- 186 

Versification of the Twenty-third Psalm, - - - 189 

To Brother L , 189 

For Mamma, ------ 190 

To Mamma, ------ 190 

To a Flower, - 191 

Stanzas, ------ 192 

Essay on Nature, ------ 193 

Home, ------- 194 

The Majesty of God, - - - - - 194 

From the Forty-second Psalm, - - - - 195 

Hymn of the Fire- Worshippers, - - - - 195 

Enigma, ------ I97 

To a Little Cousin at Christmas, - - - - 197 

On reading Childe Harold, - - - - 198 

Invocation, - - - - - - -199 

Christmas Hymn, ----- 199 

Evening, ------- 200 



vi CONTENTS. 

Enigma, - - - - • - 

To the Deity, - - - - 

To my Sister Lucretia, . - - 

Prophecy, - - - - - 

Enigma, . - . . _ 

Essay on the Sacred Writings, 

The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, 

Versification from Ossian, - 

To my dear Mamma, . - - - 

On the Death of Mrs. F. H. Webb, 

To the Evening Star, - - - - 

To my Father, . - - - 

On Nature, - - - - - 

To the Infidel ... - 

On the Mind, ----- 

On the Hope of my Brother's Return, 

To my Mother, - - - 

Boabdil el Chico's Farewell to Granada, 

The Shunamite, . . . - 

Belshazzar's Feast, - . - 

To my Mother on Christmas Day, 

On visiting the Panorama of Geneva, 

The Funeral Bell, - - . - 

Lines on receiving a Blank-book from my Mother, 

To Fancy, . . - - . 

Invocation to Spring, - - - 

From the One Hundred and Thirty-ninth Psalm, 

Stanzas, - - - - - 

Letter to a Poetical Correspondent, 

Stanzas, - - . . _ 

Versification from Ossian, - - . 

To the Muse, after my Brother's Death, 



r 



COINTEJNTS. vii 



Lines on hearing some Passages read from Mrs. Hemans' 

" Records of Woman," - - - - 257 

An Appeal for the Blind, - _ _ - 258 

The Smiles of Nature, 261 

On a Rose received from Miss Sedgwick, » - 264 

The Church-Going Bell, 267 

Fragment, _..--- 267 

Fragment, ------- 268 

On returning to Ballston, - - - - 269 

Twilight, 272 

On the Departure of a Brother, . - - 273 

Lines written after reading Accounts of the Death of 

Martyrs, ------ 275 

On reading Cowper's Poems, - - - - 277 

Stanzas, ------ 278 

Fragment, ------- 279 

Imitation of a Scotch Ballad, - - - - 280 

Ere Thou didst Form, - - - - - 281 

A Fragment, _.---- 282 

Fragment of the Spectre Bridegroom, _ - - 282 

Elegy upon Leo, an old House-Dog, - - - 288 

Morning, ------- 289 

Lines written after she herself began to fear that her 

disease was past remedy, - . - - 290 

To my Old Home at Plattsburgh, - - - 292 

Fame, ------- 293 

On my Mother's Fiftieth Birthday, - - - 293 

The Storm hath Passed By, - - - - 294 

Epitaph on a Young Robin, . - - - 295 

To a Moonbeam, ------ 296 

Evening, - - - - - - 297 

A Poetical Letter to Henrietta, - - - - 299 



viii CONTENTS. 

Lines on seeing some fragments from the Tomb of Virgil, 302 
A Short Sketch of the most important ideas contained in 

Cousin's " Introduction to the History of Philosophy," 303 

Brief Notes from Cousin's Philosophy, - - 306 

Lenore, ---..-- 308 



r 



BIOGRAPHY 



OF 



MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



The reading world has long set a cherishing value 
on the name of Lucretia Davidson, a lovely American 
girl, who, after giving early promise of rare poetic 
excellence, was snatched from existence in the seven- 
teenth year of her age. An interesting biography of 
her by President Morse of the American Society of 
Arts, was published shortly after her death ; another has 
since appeared from the classic pen of Miss Sedgwick, 
and her name has derived additional celebrity in Great 
Britain from an able article by Robert Southey, inserted 
some years since in the London Quarterly Review. 

An intimate acquaintance in early life with some of 
the relatives of Miss Davidson had caused me, while 
in Europe, to read with great interest every thing con- 
cerning her; when, therefore, in 1833, about a year 
after my return to the United States, I was told, while 
in New York, that Mrs. Davidson, the mother of the 
deceased, was in the city and desirous of consulting 
me about a new edition of her daughter's works, I 
lost no time in waiting upon her. Her appearance 

2 



10 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

corresponded with the interesting idea given of her in 
her daughter's biography ; she was feeble and ema- 
ciated, and supported by pillows in an easy chair, but 
there were the lingerings of grace and beauty in her 
form and features, and her eye still gleamed with intel- 
ligence and sensibihty. 

While conversing with her on the subject of her 
daughter's works, I observed a young girl, apparently 
not more than eleven years of age, moving quietly about 
her ; occasionally arranging a pillow, and at the same 
time listening earnestly to our conversation. There 
was an intellectual beauty about this child that struck 
me ; and that was heightened by a blushing diffidence 
when Mrs. Davidson presented her to me as her 
daughter Margaret. Shortly afterwards, on her leaving 
the room, her mother, seeing that she had attracted my 
attention, spoke of her as having evinced the same early 
poetical talent that had distinguished her sister, and as 
evidence, showed me several copies of verses remark- 
able for such a child. On further inquiry I found that 
she had very nearly the same moral and physical con- 
stitution, and was prone to the same feverish excitement 
of the mind, and kindling of the imagination that had 
acted so powerfully on the fragile frame of her sister 
Lucretia. I cautioned the mother, therefore, against 
fostering her poetic vein, and advised such studies and 
pursuits as would tend to strengthen her judgment, calm 
and regulate the sensibilities, and enlarge that common 
sense which is the only safe foundation for all intellectual 
superstructure. 

I found Mrs. Davidson fully aware of the importance 
of such a course of treatment, and disposed to pursue 
it, but saw at the same time that she would have diffi- 



BIOGRAPHY. 1 1 

culty to carry it into effect ; having to contend with the 
additional excitement produced in the naind of this 
sensitive Httle being by the example of her sister, and 
the intense enthusiasm she evinced concerning her. 

Three years elapsed before I again sav^^ the subject of 
this memoir. She was then residing with her mother 
at a rural retreat in the neighbourhood of New York. 
The interval that had elapsed had rapidly developed the 
powers of her mind, and heightened the loveliness of 
her person, but my apprehensions had been verified. 
The soul was wearing out the body. Preparations 
were making to take her on a tour for the benefit of 
her health, and her mother appeared to flatter herself 
that it might prove efficacious ; but when I noticed the 
fragile delicacy of her form, the hectic bloom of her 
cheek, and the almost unearthly lustre of her eye, I felt 
convinced that she was not long for this world ; in truth, 
she already appeared more spiritual than mortal. We 
parted, and I never saw her more. Within three years 
afterwards, a number of manuscripts were placed in my 
hands, as all that was left of her. They were accom- 
panied by copious memoranda concerning her, furnished 
by her mother at my request. From these I have 
digested and arranged the following particulars, adopt- 
ing in many places the original manuscript, without 
alteration. In fact, the narrative will be found almost 
as illustrative of the character of the mother as of the 
child ; they were singularly identified in taste, feelings, 
and pursuits; tenderly entwined together by maternal 
and filial affection; they reflected an inexpressibly 
touching grace and interest upon each other by this 
holy relationship, and, to my mind, it would be marring 



12 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

one of the most beautiful and affecting groups in the 
•bistpr}4 of modern literature, to sunder them. 

Margaret Miller Davidson, the youngest daughter of 
Dr. Oliver and Mrs. Margaret Davidson, was born at 
the family residence on Lake Champlain, in the village 
of Plattsburgh, on the 26th of March, 1823. She 
evinced fragility of constitution from her very birth. 
Her sister^Lucretia, whose brief poetical career has 
been so celebrated in literary history, was her early and 
fond attendant, and some of her most popular lays were 
composed with the infant sporting in her arms. She 
used to gaze upon her little sister with intense delight, 
and, remarking the uncommon brightness and beauty 
of her eyes, would exclaim, *' She must, she will be a 
poet!" The exclamation was natural enough in an 
enthusiastic girl who regarded every thing through the 
medium of her ruling passion ; but it was treasured up 
by her mother, and considered almost prophetic. Lu- 
cretia did not live to see her prediction verified. Her 
brief sojourn upon earth was over before Margaret was 
quite two years and a half old ; yet to use her mother's 
fond expressions, '• On ascending to the skies, it seemed 
as if her poetic mantle fell like a robe of light on her 
infant sister." 

Margaret, from the first dawnings of intellect, gave 
evidence of being no common child: her ideas and 
expressions were not like those of other children, and 
often startled by their precocity. Her sister's death 
had made a strong impression on her, and, though so 
extremely young, she already understood and appre- 
ciated Lucretia's character. An evidence of this, and 
of the singular precocity of thought and expression just 



BIOGRAPHY. 13 

r 

noticed, occurred but a few months afterwards. As 
Mrs. Davidson was seated, at twilight, conversing with 
a female friend, Margaret entered the room with a fight 
elastic step, for which she was remarked. 

" That child never walks," said the lady ; then turn- 
ing to her, " Margaret, where are you flying now 1" 
said she. 

" To heaven !" replied she, pointing up with her 
finger, " to meet my sister Lucretia, when I get my 
new wings." 

" Your new wings ! When will you get them 1" 
" Oh soon, very soon ; and then I shall fly !" 
" She loved," says her mother, " to sit hour after 
hour on a cushion at my feet, her little arms resting 
upon my lap, and her full dark eyes fixed upon mine, 
Hstening to anecdotes of her sister's life and details of 
the events which preceded her death, often exclaiming, 
while her face beamed with mingled emotions, ' Oh 
mamma, I will try to fill her place ! Oh teach me to be 
like her !' " 

Much of Mrs. Davidson's time was now devoted to 
her daily instruction ; noticing, however, her lively sen- 
sibility, the rapid developement of her mind, and her 
eagerness for knowledge, her lessons were entirely oral, 
for she feared for the present to teach her to read, lest 
by too early and severe application, she should injure 
her delicate frame. She had nearly attained her fourth 
year before she was taught to spell. Ill health then 
obliged Mrs. Davidson, for the space of a year, to 
entrust her tuition to a lady in Canada, a valued friend, 
who had other young girls under her care. When she 
returned home she could read fluently, and had com- 
menced lessons in writing. It was now decided that she 



14 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

should not be placed in any public seminary, but that 
her education should be conducted by her mother. The 
task was rendered delightful by the docihty of the pupil ; 
by her affectionate feelings, and quick kindling sensibili- 
ties. This maternal instruction, while it kept her apart 
from the world, and fostered a singular purity and 
innocence of thought, contributed greatly to enhance 
her imaginative powers, for the mother partook largely 
of the poetical temperament of the child ; it was, in fact, 
one poetical spirit ministering to another. 

Among the earliest indications of the poetical charac- 
ter in this child were her perceptions of the beauty of 
natural scenery. Her home was in a picturesque neigh- 
bourhood, calculated to awaken and foster such percep- 
tions. The following description of it is taken from one 
of her own writings ; " There stood on the banks of the 
Saranac a small neat cottage, which peeped forth from 
the surrounding foliage, the image of rural quiet and 
contentment. An old-fashioned piazza extended along 
the front, shaded with vines and honeysuckles ; the turf 
on the bank of the river was of the richest and brightest 
emerald ; and the wild rose and sweet briar, which 
twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with 
more delicate freshness and perfume within the bounds 
of this earthly paradise. The scenery around w^as 
wildly yet beautifully romantic ; the clear blue river 
glancing and sparkling at its feet, seemed only as a 
preparation for another and more magnificent view, 
when the stream, gliding on to the west, was buried in 
the broad white bosom of Champlain, which stretched 
back wave after wave in the distance, until lost in faint 
blue mists that veiled the sides of its guardian mountains, 
seeming more lovely from their indistinctness.'^ 



BIOGRAPHY. 15 

Such were the natural scenes which presented them- 
selves to her dawning perceptions, and she is said to 
have evinced from her earliest childhood, a remarkable 
sensibility to their charms. A beautiful tree, or shrub, 
or flower would fill her with delight ; she would note 
with surprising discrimination the various effects of the 
weather upon the surrounding landscape ; the mountains 
wrapped in clouds ; the torrents roaring down their sides 
in times of tempest ; the " bright warm sunshine," the 
" cooling showers," the " pale cold moon," for such was 
already her poetical phraseology. A bright starlight 
night, also, would seem to awaken a mysterious rapture 
in her infant bosom, and one of her early expressions in 
speaking of the stars was, that they " shone like the eyes 
of angels." 

One of the most beautiful parts of the maternal 
instruction was in guiding these kindling perceptions 
from nature up to nature's God. 

" I cannot say," observes her mother, " at what age 
her religious impressions were imbibed. They seemed 
to be interwoven with her existence. From the very 
first exercise of reason she evinced strong devotional 
feelings, and although she loved play, she would at any 
time prefer seating herself beside me, and, whh every 
faculty absorbed in the subject, listen while I attempted 
to recount the w^onders of Providence, and point out the 
wisdom and benevolence of God, as manifested in the 
works of creation. Her young heart would swell with 
rapture, and the tear would tremble in her eye, when I 
explained to her, that he who clothed the trees with 
verdure, and gave the rose its bloom, had also created 
her with capacities to enjoy their beauties: that the 
same power which clothed the mountains with sublimity, 



16 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

made her happiness his daily care. Thus a sentiment 
of gratitude and affection towards the Creator entered 
into all her emotions of delight at the wonders and 
beauties of creation." 

There is nothing more truly poetical than religion 
when properly inculcated, and it will be found that this 
early piety, thus amiably instilled, had the happiest 
effect upon her throughout life ; elevating and ennobling 
her genius ; lifting her above every thing gross and 
sordid ; attuning her thoughts to pure and lofty themes ; 
heightening rather than impairing her enjoyments, and 
at all times giving an ethereal lightness to her spirit. 
To use her mother's words, " she was like a bird on the 
wing, her fairy form scarcely seemed to touch the earth 
as she passed." She was at times in a kind of ecstacy 
from the excitement of her imagination and the exube- 
rance of her pleasurable sensations. In such moods 
every object of natural beauty inspired a degree of 
rapture, always mingled wdth a feeling of gratitude to 
the Being " who had made so many beautiful things 
for her." In such moods too her little heart would 
overflow with love to all around; indeed, adds her 
mother, to love and be beloved was necessary to her 
existence. Private prayer became a habit with her at 
a very early age ; it was almost a spontaneous expres- 
sion of her feelings, the breathings of an affectionate 
and delighted heart. 

" By the time she was six years old," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " her language assumed an elevated tone, 
and her mind seemed filled with poetic imagery, blended 
with veins of religious thought. At this period I was 
chiefly confined to my room by debility. She was my 
companion and friend, and, as the greater part of my 



BIOGRAPHY. 17 

time was devoted to her instruction, she advanced 
rapidly in her studies. She read not only well, but 
elegantly. Her love of reading amounted almost to a 
passion, and her intelligence surpassed belief. Strangers 
viewed with astonishment a child little more than six 
years old reading with enthusiastic delight Thomson's 
Seasons, the Pleasures of Hope, Cowper's Task, the 
writings of Milton, Byron, and Scott, and marking, 
with taste and discrimination, the passages which struck 
her. The sacred writings were her daily studies ; with 
her little Bible on her lap, she usually seated herself 
near me, and there read a chapter from the holy 
volume. This was a duty which she was taught not 
to perform lightly, and we have frequently spent two 
hours in reading and remarking upon the contents of a 
chapter." 

A tendency to " lisp in numbers," was observed in 
her about this time. She frequently made little im- 
promptus in rhyme, without seeming to be conscious 
that there was any thing peculiar in the habit. On one 
occasion, while standing by a window at which her 
mother was seated, and looking out upon a lovely land- 
scape, she exclaimed — 

" See those lofty, those grand trees ; 
Their high tops waving in the breeze ; 
They cast their shadows on the ground, 
And spread their fragrance all around." 

Her mother, who had several times been struck by little 
rhyming ejaculations of the kind, now handed her 
writing implements, and requested her to write down 
what she had just uttered. She appeared surprised at 
the request, but complied ; writing it down as if it had 



18 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

been prose, without arranging it in a stanza, or com- 
mencing the hnes with capitals ; not seeming aware 
that she had rhymed. The notice attracted to this 
impromptu, however, had its effect, whether for good 
or for evil. From that time she wrote some scraps of 
poetry, or rather rhyme, every day, which would be 
treasured up with delight by her mother, who watched 
with trembling, yet almost fascinated anxiety, these pre- 
mature blossomings of poetic fancy. 

On another occasion, towards sunset, as Mrs. David- 
son was seated by the window of her bed-room, little 
Margaret ran in, greatly excited, exclaiming that there 
was an awful thundergust rising, and that the clouds 
were black as midnight. 

" I gently drew her to my bosom," says Mrs. David- 
son, " and after I had soothed her agitation, she seated 
herself at my feet, laid her head in my lap, and gazed 
at the rising storm. As the thunder rolled, she clung 
closer to my knees, and when the tempest burst in all 
its fury, I felt her tremble. I passed my arms round 
her, but soon found it was not fear that agitated her. 
Her eyes kindled as she watched the warring elements, 
until, extending her hand, she exclaimed, 

" The lightning' plays along the sky, 
The thunder rolls and bursts from high ! 
Jehovah's voice amid the storm 
I heard — methinks I see his form, 
As riding on the clouds of even, 
He spreads his glory o'er the heaven." 

This likewise her mother made her write down at the 
instant ; thus giving additional impulse to this growing 
incHnation. 



BIOGRAPHY. X9 

I shall select one more instance of this early facility 
at numbers, especially as it involves a case of con- 
science, creditable to her early powers of self-exami- 
nation. She had been reproved by her mother for 
some trifling act of disobedience, but aggravated her 
fault by attempting to justify it; she was, therefore, 
banished to her bed-room until she should become 
sensible of her error. Two hours elapsed, without her 
evincing any disposition to yield : on the contrary, she 
persisted in vindicating her conduct, and accused her 
mother of injustice. 

Mrs. Davidson mildly reasoned with her; entreated 
her to examine the spirit by which she was actuated ; 
placed before her the example of our Saviour in sub- 
mitting to the will of his parents ; and, exhorting her to 
pray to God to assist her, and to give her meekness and 
humility, left her again to her reflections. 

" An hour or two afterwards," says Mrs. Davidson, 
" she desired I would admit her. I sent word that, 
when she was in a proper frame of mind I w^ould be 
glad to see her. The little creature came in, bathed 
in tears, threw her arms round my neck, and sobbing 
violently, put into my hands the following verses : 

" Forgiven by my Saviour dear, 
For all the wrongs I've done, 
What other wish could I have here ? 
Alas there yet is one. 

I know my God has pardon'd me, 

I know he loves me still ; 
I wish forgiven I may be, 

By her I've used so ill. 

Good resolutions I have made, 
And thought I loved my Lord ; 



20 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But ah ! I trusted in myself, 
And broke my foolish word. 

But give me strength, oh Lord, to trust 

For help alone in thee ; 
Thou know'st my inmost feelings best, 

Oh teach me to obey." 

We have spoken of the buoyancy of Margaret's 
feehngs, and the vivid pleasure she received from 
external objects ; she entered, however, but little into 
the amusements of the few children with whom she 
associated, nor did she take much delight in their 
society; she was conscious of a difference between 
them and herself, but scarce knew in what it consisted. 
Their sports seemed to divert for a while, but soon 
wearied her, and she would fly to a book, or seek the 
conversation of persons of maturer age and mind. 
Her highest pleasures were intellectual. She seemed 
to live in a world of her own creation, surrounded by 
the images of her own fancy. Her own childish 
amusements had originaUty and freshness, and called 
into action the mental powers, so as to render them 
interesting to persons of all ages. If at play with her 
little dog or kitten, she would carry on imaginary 
dialogues between them ; always ingenious, and some- 
times even brilliant. If her doll happened to be the 
plaything of the moment, it was invested with a cha- 
racter exhibiting knowledge of history, and all the 
powers of memory which a child can be supposed 
to exercise. Whether it was Mary Queen of Scots, 
or her rival, Elizabeth, or the simple cottage maaden, 
each character was maintained with propriety. In 
telling stories, (an amusement all children are fond of,) 
hers were always original, and of a kind calculated to 



BIOGRAPHY. 21 

elevate the minds of the children present, giving them 
exalted views of truth, honour, and integrity; and the 
sacrifice of all selfish feelings to the happiness of others 
was illustrated in the heroine of her story. 

This talent for extemporaneous story-telhng increased 
with exercise, until she would carry on a narrative for 
hours together; and in nothing was the precocity of 
her inventive powers more apparent than in the discri- 
mination and individuality of her fictitious characters; 
the consistency with which they were sustained; the 
graphic force of her descriptions ; the elevation of her 
sentiments, and the poetic beauty of her imagery. 

This early gift caused her to be sought by some of 
the neighbours ; who would lead her unconsciously into 
an exertion of her powers. Nothing was done by 
her from vanity or a disposition to " show ofl^," but she 
would become excited by their attention and the plea- 
sure they seemed to derive from her narration. When 
thus excited, a whole evening would be occupied by 
one of her stories ; and when the servant came to take 
her home, she would observe, in the phraseology of the 
magazines, " the story to be continued in our next." 
• Between the age of six and seven she entered upon a 
course of English grammar, geography, history, and 
rhetoric, still under the direction and superintendence of 
her mother ; but such was her ardour and appUcation, 
that it was necessary to keep her in check, lest a too 
intense pursuit of knowledge should impair her delicate 
constitution. She w^as not required to commit her 
lessons to memory, but to give the substance of them 
in her own language, and to explain their purport; 
thus she learnt nothing by rote, but every thing under- 



22 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

standingly, and soon acquired a knowledge of the rudi- 
ments of English education. The morning lessons com- 
pleted, the rest of the day was devoted to recreation ; 
occasionally sporting and gathering wild flowers on the 
banks of the Saranac ; though the extreme delicacy of 
her constitution prevented her taking as much exercise 
as her mother could have wished. 

In 1830 an English gentleman, who had been strongly 
interested and affected by the perusal of the biography 
and writings of Lucretia Davidson, visited Plattsburgh, 
in the course of a journey from Quebec to New York, 
to see the place where she w^as born and had been 
buried. While there, he sought an interview with Mrs. 
Davidson, and his appearance and deportment were 
such as at once to inspire respect and confidence. He 
had much to ask about the object of his literary pil- 
grimage, but his inquiries were managed with the most 
considerate delicacy. While he was thus conversing 
with Mrs. Davidson, the little Margaret, then about 
seven years of age, came tripping into the room, with a 
book in one hand and a pencil in the other. He was 
charmed with her bright intellectual countenance, but 
still more with finding that the volume in her hand was* 
a copy of Thomson's Seasons, in which she had been 
marking with a pencil the passages which most pleased 
her. He drew her to him; his frank, winning manner 
soon banished her timidity ; he engaged her in conver- 
sation, and found, to his astonishment, a counterpart of 
Lucretia Davidson before him. His visit was neces- 
sarily brief; but his manners, appearance, and conver- 
sation, and, above all, the extraordinary interest with 
which he had regarded her, sank deep in the affectionate 



BIOGRAPHY. 



23 



heart of the child, and inspired a friendship that re- 
mained one of her strongest attachments through the 
residue of her transient existence. 

The delicate state of her health this summer rendered 
it advisable to take her to the Saratoga Springs, the 
waters of which appeared to have a beneficial effect. 
After remaining here some time, she accompanied her 
parents to New York. It was her first visit to the 
city, and of course, fruitful of wonder and excitement ; 
a new world seemed to open before her ; new scenes, 
new friends, new occupations, new sources of instruc- 
tion and enjoyment ; her young heart was overflowing, 
and her head giddy with delight. To complete her 
happiness, she again met with her English friend, whom 
she greeted with as much eagerness and joy as if he 
had been a companion of her own age. He manifested 
the same interest in her that he had shown at Platts- 
burgh, and took great pleasure in accompanying her to 
many of the exhibitions and places of intellectual gratifi- 
cation of the metropolis, and marking their efiects upon 
her fresh, unhackneyed feelings and intelligent mind. 
In company with him, she, for the first and only time in 
her life, visited the theatre. It was a scene of magic to 
her, or rather, as she said, like a " brilliant dream." 
She often recurred to it with vivid recollection, and the 
eflTect of it upon her imagination was subsequently appa- 
rent in the dramatic nature of some of her writings. 

One of her greatest subjects of regret on leaving 
New York, was the parting with her intellectual Eng- 
lish friend ; but she was consoled by his promising to 
pay Plattsburgh another visit, and to pass a few days 
there previous to his departure for England. Soon 
after returning to Plattsburgh, however, Mrs. Davidson 



24 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

received a letter from him saying that he was unex- 
pectedly summoned home, and would have to defer his 
promised visit until his return to the United States. 

It was a severe disappointment to Margaret, who had 
conceived for him an enthusiastic friendship remarkable 
in such a child. His letter was accompanied by pre- 
sents of books and various tasteful remembrances, but 
the sight of them only augmented her affliction. She 
wrapped them all carefully in paper, and treasured them 
up in a particular drawer, where they were daily visited, 
and many a tear shed over them. 

The excursions to Saratoga and New York had 
improved her health, and given a fresh impulse to her 
mind. She resumed her studies with great eagerness ; 
her spirits rose with mental exercise ; she soon was in 
one of her veins of intellectual excitement. She read, 
she wrote, she danced, she sang, and was for the time 
the happiest of the happy. In the freshness of early 
morning, and towards sunset, when the heat of the day 
was over, she would stroll on the banks of the Sara- 
nac, following its course to where it pours itself into 
the beautiful Bay of Cumberland in Lake Champlain. 
There the rich variety of scenery which bursts upon 
the eye ; the islands, scattered, like so many gems, on 
the broad bosom of the lake ; the Green Mountains of 
Vermont beyond, clothed in the atmospherical charms 
of our magnificent climate ; all these would inspire a 
degree of poetic rapture in her mind, mingled with a 
sacred melancholy ; for these were scenes which had 
often awakened the enthusiasm of her deceased sister 
Lucretia. 

Her mother, in her memoranda, gives a picture of her 
in one of those excited moods. 



BIOGRAPHY. 25 

" After an evening's stroll along the river bank, we 
seated ourselves by a window to observe the effect of 
the full moon rising over the waters. A holy calm 
seemed to pervade all nature. With her head resting 
on my bosom, and her eyes fixed on the firmament, she 
pointed to a particularly bright star, and said : 

" * Behold that bright and sparkling star 
Which setteth as a queen afar ; 
Over the blue and spangled heaven 
It sheds its glory in the even I 

"•Our Jesus made that sparkling star 
Which shines and twinkles from afar. 
Oh ! 'twas that bright and glorious gem 
Which shone o'er ancient Bethlehem !' 

" The summer passed swiftly away," continues her 
mother, " yet her intellectual advances seemed to out- 
strip the wings of time. As the autumn approached, 
however, I could plainly perceive that her health was 
again declining. The chilly winds from the lake were 
too keen for her weak lungs. My own health, too was 
failing; it was determined, therefore, that we should 

pass the winter with my eldest daughter, Mrs. T , 

who resided in Canada, in the same latitude it is true, 
but in an inland situation. This arrangement was very 
gratifying to Margaret ; and, had my health improved 
by the change, as her own did, she would have been 
perfectly happy. During this period she attended to a 
regular course of study, under my direction ; for, though 
confined wholly to my bed, and suffering extremely from 
pain and debility. Heaven in mercy preserved my men- 
tal faculties from the wreck that disease had made of 
my physical powers." The same plan as heretofore 

3 



26 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

was pursued. Nothing was learnt by rote, and the 
lessons were varied to prevent fatigue and distaste, 
though study was always with her a pleasing duty 
rather than an arduous task. After she had studied her 
lessons by herself, she would discuss them in conversa- 
tion with her mother. Her reading was under the 
same guidance. " I selected her books," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " with much care, and to my surprise found 
that, notwithstanding her poetical temperament, she 
had a high relish for history, and that she would read 
with as much apparent interest an abstruse treatise that^ 
called forth the reflecting powers, as she did poetry or 
works of the imagination. In polite literature Addison 
was her favourite author, but Shakspeare she dwelt 
upon with enthusiasm. She was restricted, however, to 
certain marked portions of this inimitable writer; and 
having been told that it was not proper for her to read 
the whole, such was her innate delicacy and her sense 
of duty, that she never overstepped the prescribed 
boundaries." 

In the intervals of study she amused herself with 
drawing, for which she had a natural talent, and soon 
began to sketch with considerable skill. As her health 
had improved since her removal to Canada, she fre- 
quently partook of the favourite winter recreation of a 
drive in a traineau or sleigh, in company with her sister 
and her brother-in-law, and completely enveloped in 
furs and buffalo-robes ; and nothing put her in a finer 
flow of spirits, than thus skimming along, in bright 
January weather, on the sparkling snow, to the merry 
music of the jingling sleigh-bells. The winter passed 
away without any improvement in the health of Mrs. 
Davidson ; indeed she continued a helpless invalid, con- 



BIOGRAPHY. 27 

fined to her bed, for eighteen months ; during all which 
time little Margaret was her almost constant com- 
panion and attendant. 

*' Her tender solicitude," writes Mrs. Davidson, " en- 
deared her to me beyond any other earthly thing ; 
although under the roof of a beloved and affectionate 
daughter, and having constantly with me an experienced 
and judicious nurse, yet the soft and gentle voice of my 
little darhng, was more than medicine to my worn-out 
frame. If her delicate hand smoothed my pillow, it 
was soft to my aching temples, and her sweet smile 
would cheer me in the lowest depths of despondency. 
She would draw for me — read to me — and often, when 
writing at her little table, would surprise me by some 
tribute of love, which never failed to operate as a 
cordial to my heart. At a time when my life was 
despaired of, she wrote the following lines while sitting 
at my bed — 

'* ' I'll to thy arms in rapture fly, 

And wipe the tear that dims thine eye ; 
Thy pleasure will be my delight, 
Till thy pure spirit takes its flight. 

"'When left alone — when thou art gone, 
Yet still I will not feel alone ; 
Thy spirit still will hover near, 
And guard thy orphan daughter dear !' " 

In this trying moment, when Mrs. Davidson herself 
had given up all hope of recovery, one of the most 
touching sights was to see this affectionate and sensitive 
child tasking herself to achieve a likeness of her mother, 
that it might remain with her as a memento. " How 
often would she set by my bed," says Mrs. Davidson, 



28 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" striving to sketch features that had been vainly- 
attempted by more than one finished artist ; and when 
she found that she had failed, and that the likeness 
could not be recognised, she w^ould put her arms around 
my neck and weep, and say, ' Oh dear mamma, I shall 
lose you, and not even a sketch of your features will be 
left me ! and if I live to be a woman, perhaps I shall 
even forget how you looked !' This idea gave her great 
distress, sweet lamb ! I then little thought this bosom 
would have been her dying pillow !" 

After being reduced to the very verge of the grave, 
Mrs. Davidson began slowly to recover, but a long time 
elapsed before she was restored to her usual degree 
of health. Margaret in the mean time increased in 
strength and stature; she still looked fragile and deli- 
cate, but she was always cheerful and buoyant. To 
relieve the monotony of her life, which had been 
passed too much in a sick chamber, and to preserve her 
spirits fresh and elastic, little excursions were devised 
for her about the country, to Missique Bay, St. Johns, 
Alburgh, Champlain, &c. The following lines, addressed 
to her mother on one of these occasional separations, 
will serve as a specimen of her compositions in this the 
eighth year of her age, and of the affectionate current 
of her feelings. 

" Farewell, dear mother ! for a while 
I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
And joys unceasing round thee flow. 

" May the Almighty Father spread 
His sheltering wings above thy head; 
It is not long that we must part, 
Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart. 



BIOGRAPHY. 29 

** Remember, oh remember me, 
Unceasing is my love for thee ; 
When death shall sever earthly ties, 
When thy loved form all senseless lies, 

" Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
And roam through wide eternity ; 
Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
And count the brilliant stars of even ! 

" Farewell, dear mother I for a while 
I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
May angels watch thy couch of wo. 
And joys unceasing round thee flow." 

In the month of January, 1833, while still in Canada, 
she was brought very low by an attack of scarlet fever, 
under which she lingered many w^eeks, but had so far 
recovered by the middle of April as to take the air in a 
carriage. Her mother, too, having regained sufficient 
strength to travel, it w'as thought advisable, for both 
their healths, to try the effect of a journey to New 
York. They accordingly departed about the beginning 
of May, accompanied by a family party. Of this 
journey, and a sojourn of several months in New York, 
she kept a journal, which evinces considerable habits of 
observation, but still more that kindling of the imagina- 
tion which, in the poetic mind, gives to commonplace 
realities the w^itchery of romance. She was deeply 
interested by visits to the •* School for the Blind," and 
the "Deaf and Dumb Asylum;" and makes a minute of 
a visit of a very different nature — to Black Hawk and 
his fellow-chiefs, prisoners of war, who, by command of 
government, were taken about through various of our 
cities, that they might carry back to their brethren in 



30 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

the wilderness, a cautionary idea of the overwhelming 
power of the white man. 

" On the 25th June I saw and shook hands with the 
famous Black Hawk, the Indian chief, the enemy of our 
nation, who has massacred our patriots, murdered our 
women and helpless children ! Why is he treated with 
so much attention by those whom he has injured 1 It 
cannot surely arise from benevolence. It must be 
policy. Be it what it may, I cannot understand it. 
His son, the Prophet, and others who accompanied him, 
interested me more than the chief himself. His son is 
no doubt a fine specimen of Indian beauty. He has a 
high brow, piercing black eyes, long black hair, which 
hangs down his back, and, upon the whole, is well 
suited to captivate an Indian maiden. The Prophet we 
found surveying himself in a looking-glass, undoubtedly 
wishinor to show himself off to the best advantao-e in 
the fair assembly before him. The rest were dozing on 
a sofa, but they were awakened sufficiently to shake 
hands with us, and others who had the courage to ap- 
proach so near them. I remember I dreamed of them 
the following night." 

During this visit to New York she w^as the life and 
delight of the relatives with whom she resided, and 
they still retain a lively recollection of the intellectual 
nature of her sports among her youthful companions, 
and of the surprising aptness and fertile invention dis- 
played by her in contriving new sources of amusement. 
She had a number of playmates, nearly of her own 
age, and one of her projects was to get up a dramatic 
entertainment for the gratification of themselves and 
their friends. The proposal was readily agreed to, 
provided she would write the play. This she readily 



BIOGRAPHY. 31 

undertook, and indeed devised and directed the whole 
arrangements, though she had never been but once to a 
theatre, and that on her previous visit to New York. 
Her little companions were now all busily employed, 
under her direction, preparing dresses" and equipments ; 
robes with trains were fitted out for the female charac- 
ters, and quantities of paper and tinsel were consumed 
in making caps, helmets, spears, and sandals. 

After four or five days had been spent in these pre- 
parations, Margaret was called upon to produce the 
play. " Oh !" she replied, " I have not written it yet." 
— " But how is this ! Do you make the dresses first, 
and then write the play to suit them ?" — " Oh !" replied 
she gaily, " the writing of the play is the easiest part of 
the preparation ; it will be ready before the dresses." 
And, in fact, in two days she produced her drama, 
" The Tragedy of Alethia." It was not very volu- 
minous, to be sure, but it contained within it sufficient 
of high character and astounding and bloody incident 
to furnish out a drama of five times its size. A king 
and queen of England resolutely bent upon marrying 
their daughter, the Princess Alethia, to the Duke of 
Ormond. The princess most perversely and dolor- 
ously in love with a mysterious cavalier, who figures 
at her father's court under the name of Sir Percy 
Lennox, but who, in private truth, is the Spanish king, 
Rodrigo, thus obliged to maintain an incognito on ac- 
count of certain hostilities between Spain and England. 
The odious nuptials of the princess with the Duke of 
Ormond proceed: she is led, a submissive victim, to the 
altar ; is on the point of pledging her irrevocable word ; 
when the priest throws oflf his sacred robe, discovers 
himself to be Rodrigo, and plunges a dagger into the 



32 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

bosom of the king. Alethia instantly plucks the dagger 
from her father's bosom, throws herself into Rodrigo's 
arms, and kills herself. Rodrigo flies to a cavern, 
renounces England, Spain, and his royal throne, and 
devotes himself to eternal remorse. The queen ends 
the play by a passionate apostrophe to the spirit of her 
daughter, and sinks dead on the floor. 

The little drama lies before us, a curious specimen of 
the prompt talent of this most ingenious child, and by no 
means more incongruous in its incidents than many cur- 
rent dramas by veteran and experienced playv^^rights. 

The parts were now distributed and soon learnt; 
Margaret drew out a play-bill, in theatrical style, con- 
taining a list of the dramatis personae, and issued regu- 
lar tickets of admission. The piece went off with 
universal applause : Margaret figuring, in a long train, 
as the princess, and killing herself in a style that would 
not have disgraced an experienced stage heroine. 

In these, and similar amusements, her time passed 
happily in New York, for it was the study of the intelli- 
gent and amiable relatives with whom she sojourned, 
to render her residence among them as agreeable and 
profitable as possible. Her visit, however, was pro- 
tracted much beyond what was originally intended. 
As the summer advanced, the heat and restraint of the 
city became oppressive ; her heart yearned after her 
native home on the Saranac ; and the following lines, 
written at the time, express the state of her feelings — 

HOME. 

I would fly from the city, would fly fi-om its care, 
To my own native plants and my flow'rets so fair ; 
To the cool grassy shade, and the rivulet bright, 
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light. 



BIOGRAPHY. 33 

Again would I view the old mansion so dear, 

Where I sported, a babe, without sorrow or fear ; 

I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay, 

For a peep at my home on this fine summer day. 

I have friends whom I love and would leave with regret, 

But the love of my home, oh, 'tis tenderer yet ! 

There a sister reposes unconscious in death — 

'Twas there she first drew and there yielded her breath — 

A father I love is away from me now — 

Oh could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow. 

Or smooth the gray locks, to my fond heart so dear, 

How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear 1 

Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call, 

But my own darling home, it is dearer than all. 

At length, late in the month of October, the travel- 
lers turned then' faces homewards ; but it was not the 
"darling home" for which Margaret had been long- 
ing : her native cottage on the beautiful banks of the 
Saranac. The wintry winds from Lake Champlain 
had been pronounced too severe for her constitution, 
and the family residence had been reluctantly changed 
to the village of Ballston. Margaret felt this change 
most deeply. We have already shown the tender as 
well as poetical associations that linked her heart to the 
beautiful home of her childhood ; a presentiment seemed 
to come over her mind that she would never see it 
more; a presentiment unfortunately prophetic. She 
was now accustomed, to give prompt utterance to her 
emotions in rhyme, and the following lines, written at 
the time, remain a touching record of her feelings — 



MY NATIVE LAKE. 

Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream, 
Lit by the sun's resplendent beam, 



34 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Reflect each bending tree so light 
Upon thy bounding bosom bright, 
Could I but see thee once again, 
My own, my beautiful Cham plain I 

The little isles that deck thy breast. 

And calmly on thy bosom rest. 

How often, in my childish glee, 

I've sported round them, bright and free I 

Could I but see thee once again. 

My own, my beautiful Champlain! 

How oft I've watch'd the fresh'ning shower 
Bending the summer tree and flower, 
And felt my little heart beat high 
As the bright rainbow graced the sky. 
Could I but see thee once again, 
My own, my beautiful Champlain ! 

And shall I never see thee more. 
My native lake, my much-loved shore ? 
And must I bid a long adieu, 
My dear, my infant home, to you ? 
Shall I not see thee once again. 
My own, my beautiful Champlain ? 

Still, though disappointed at not returning to the 
Saranac, she soon made herself contented at Ballston. 
She was at home, in the bosom of her own family, and 
reunited to her two youngest brothers, from whom she 
had long been separated. A thousand little plans were 
devised by her, and some few of them put in execution, 
for their mutual pleasure and improvement. One of 
the most characteristic of these was a " weekly paper," 
issued by her in manuscript, and entitled " The Juvenile 
Aspirant." All their domestic occupations and amuse- 
ments were of an intellectual kind. Their mornings 
were spent in study ; the evenings enlivened by con- 



BIOGRAPHY. 35 

versation, or by the work of some favourite author, 
read aloud for the benefit of the family circle. 

As the powers of this excitable and imaginative little 
being developed themselves, Mrs. Davidson felt more 
and more conscions of the responsibility of undertaking 
to cultivate and direct them ; yet to whom could she 
confide her that w^ould so well understand her character 
and constitution ?. To place her in a boarding-school 
would subject her to increased excitement, caused by 
emulation, and her mind was already too excitable for 
her fragile frame. Her peculiar temperament required 
peculiar culture; it must neither be stimulated nor 
checked ; and while her imagination was left to its 
free soarings, care must be taken to strengthen her 
judgment, improve her mind, establish her principles, 
and inculcate habits of self-examination and self-control. 
All this, it was thought, might best be accomplished 
under a mother's eye ; it was resolved, therefore, that 
her education, should, as before, be conducted entirely 
at home. " Thus she continued," to use her mother's 
words, " to live in the bosom of affection, where every 
thought and feeling was reciprocated. I strove to draw 
out the powers of her mind by conversation and familiar 
remarks upon subjects of daily study and reflection, and 
taught her the necessity of bringing all her thoughts, 
desires and feelings under the dominion of reason ; to 
understand the importance of self-control, when she 
found her inclinations were at war with its dictates. 
To fulfil all her duties from a conviction of right, 
because they were duties; and to find her happiness 
in the consciousness of her own integrity, and the 
approbation of God. How delightful was the task of 
instructing a mind like hers ! She seized with avidity 



36 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSOx\. 

upon every new idea, for the instruction proceeded from 
lips of love. Often would she exclaim, * Oh mamma ! 
how glad I am that you are not too ill to teach me ! 
Surely I am the happiest girl in the world !' She had 
read much for a child of little more than ten years of 
age. She was well versed in both ancient and modern 
history, (that is to say, in the courses generally pre- 
scribed for the use of schools,) B];air, Kaimes, and 
Paley had formed part of her studies. She was fami- 
liar with most of the British poets. Her command of 
the English language was remarkable, both in conver- 
sation and writing. She had learned the rudiments of 
French, and was anxious to become perfect in the 
language ; but I had so neglected my duty in this 
respect after I left school, that I was not qualified to 
instruct her. A friend, however, who understood 
French, called occasionally and gave her lessons for 
his own amusement ; she soon translated well, and such 
was her talent for the acquisition of languages, and 
such her desire to read every thing in the original, that 
every obstacle vanished before her perseverance. She 
made some advances in Latin, also, in company with 
her brother, w^ho was attended by a private teacher ; 
and they were engaged upon the early books of Virgil, 
when her health again gave way, and she was confined 
to her room by severe illness. These frequent attacks 
upon a frame so delicate awakened all our fears. Her 
illness spread a gloom throughout our habitation, for 
fears were entertained that it would end in a pulmonary 
consumption." After a confinement of two months, 
however, she regained her usual, though at all times 
fragile, state of health. In the following spring, when 
she had just entered upon the eleventh year of her age, 



BIOGRAPHY. 37 

intelligence arrived of the death of her sister, Mrs. T., 
who had been resident in Canada. The blow had been 
apprehended from previous accounts of her extreme ill- 
ness, but it was a severe shock. She had looked up to 
this sister as to a second mother, and as to one who, 
from the precarious health of her natural parent, might 
be called upon to fulfil that tender office. She was one 
also calculated to inspire affection; lovely in person, 
refined and intelligent in mind, still young in years ; and 
with all this, her only remaining sister ! In the following 
lines, poured out in the fulness of her grief, she touch- 
ingly alludes to the previous loss of her sister Lucreiia, 
so often the subject of her poetic regrets, and of the 
consolation she had always felt in still having a sister 
to love and cherish her. 

ON THE DEATH OF MY SISTER ANNA ELIZA. 

While weeping o'er our sister's tomb, 

And heaving many a heartfelt sigh, 
And while in youth's bewitching bloom, 

I thought not that thou too couldst die. 

When gazing on that little mound, 

Spread o'er with turf, and flowers, and mould, 

I thought not that thy lovely form 
Could be as motionless and cold. 

When her light, airy form was lost 

To fond affection's weeping eye, 
I thought not we should mourn for thee, 

I thought not that thou too couldst die. 

Yes, sparkling gem ! when thou wert here. 

From death's encircling mantle free. 
Our mourning parents wiped each tear. 

And cried, " Why weep ? we still have thee." 



38 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Each tender thought on thee they turn'd, 
Each hope of joy to thee was given, 

And, dwelling on each matchless charm. 
They half forgot the saint in heaven. 

But thou art gone, for ever gone ! 

Sweet wanderer in a world of wo ! 
Now, unrestrain'd our grief must pour ; 

Uncheck'd our mourning tears must flow. 

How ofl I've press'd my glowing lip 
In rapture to thy snowy brow. 

And gazed upon that angel eye. 
Closed in death's chilling slumber now. 

While tottering on the verge of life. 
Thine every nerve with pain unstrung, 

That beaming eye was raised to heaven, 
That heart to God for safety clung. 

And when the awful moment came. 
Replete with trembling hope and fear. 

Though anguish shook thy slender frame, 
Thy thoughts were in a brighter sphere. 

The wreath of light which round thee play'd. 
Bore thy pure spirit to the skies ; 

With thee we lost our brightest gem, 
But heaven has gained a glorious prize. 

Oh may the bud of promise left. 
Follow the brilliant path she trod, 

And of her fostering care bereft, 
Still seek and find his mother's God. 

But he, the partner of her life, 

Who shared her joy and soothed her wo, 

How can I heal his broken heart ? 
How bid his sorrow cease to flow ? 



BIOGRAPHY. 39 

It's only time these wounds can heal ; 

Time, from whose piercing pangs alone 
The poignancy of grief can steal, 

And hush the heart's convulsive moan. 

To parry the effect of this most afflicting blow, 
Margaret was sent on a visit to New York, where she 
passed a couple of months in the society of affectionate 
and intelligent friends, and returned home in June, 
recruited in health and spirits. The sight of her mo- 
ther, however, though habituated to sorrow and suffer- 
ing, yet bowed down by her recent bereavement, called 
forth her tenderest sympathies ; and we consider it as 
illustrating the progress of the intellect and the history 
of the heart of this most interesting child, to insert 
another effusion called forth by this domestic calamity : 

TO MY MOTHER OPPRESSED WITH SORROW. 

Weep, oh my mother ! I will bid thee weep ! 
For grief like thine requires the aid of tears ; 
But oh, I would not see thy bosom thus 
Bow'd down to earth, with anguish so severe ! 
I would not see thine ardent feelings crush'd, 
Deaden'd to all save sorrow's thrilling tone, 
Like the pale flower, which hangs its drooping head 
Beneath the chilling blasts of stern iEolus ! 
Oh I have seen that brow with pleasure flush'd. 
The lightning smile around it brightly playing. 
And the dark eyelids trembling with delight — 
But now how changed ! — thy downcast eye is bent, 
With heavy, thoughtful glances, on the ground. 
And oh how quickly starts the tear-drop there ! 
It is not age which dims its wonted fire, 
Or plants his lilies on thy pallid cheek, 
But sorrow, keenest, darkest, biting sorrow I 
When love would seek to lead thy heart from grief, 
And fondly pleads one cheering look to view, 



40 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

A sad, a faint sad smile one instant gleams 

Athwart the brow where sorrow sits enshrined. 

Brooding o'er ruins of what once was fair ; 

But like departing sunset, as it throws 

One farewell shadow o'er the sleeping earth, 

(So soon in sombre twilight to be wrapt,) 

Thus, thus it fades ! and sorrow more profound 

Dwells on each feature where a smile, so cold, 

It scarcely might be called the mockery 

Of cheerful peace, but just before had been. 

Long years of suffering, brighten'd not by joy. 

Death and disease, fell harbinger of wo, 

Must leave their impress on the human face, 

And dim the fire of youth, the glow of pride ; 

But oh my mother ! mourn not thus for her^ 

The rose, just blown, transplanted to its home, 

Nor weep that her angelic soul has found 

A resting-place with God. 

Oh let the eye of heaven-born faith disperse 

The dark'ning mists of earthly grief, and pierce 

The clouds which shadow dull mortality ! 

Gaze on the heaven of glory crown'd with light, 

Where rests thine own sweet child with radiant brow. 

In the same voice which charm'd her father's halls. 

Chanting sweet anthems to her Maker's praise ; 

And watching with delight the gentle buds 

Which she had lived to mourn ; watching thine own, 

My mother I the sofl unfolding blossoms. 

Which, ere the breath of earthly sin could taint. 

Departed to their Saviour ; there to wait 

For thy fond spirit in the home of bliss ! 

The angel babes have found a second mother ; 

But when thy soul shall pass from earth away, 

The little cherubs then shall cling to thee, 

And their sweet guardian welcome thee with joy, 

Protector of their helpless infancy. 

Who taught them how to reach that happy home. 

Oh think of this, and let one heartfelt smile 

Illume the face so long estranged from joy ; 

But may it rest not on thy brow alone, 

But shed a cheering influence o'er thy heart, 



BIOGRAPHY. 41 

Too sweet to be forgotten I Though thy loved 

And beautiful are fled from earth away, 

Still there are those who love thee — who would live 

With thee alone — who weeps or smiles with thee. 

Think of thy noble sons, and think of her 

Who prays thee to be happy in the hope 

Of meeting those in heaven who loved thee here. 

And training those on earth that they may live 

A band of saints with thee in Paradise. 

The regular studies of Margaret were now resumed, 
and her mother found, in attending to her instruction, a 
rehef from the poignancy of her afflictions. Margaret 
always enjoyed the countr}^ and in fine weather indulged 
in long rambles in the woods, accompanied by some 
friend, or attended by a faithful servant woman. When 
in the house, the versatility of her talents, her constitu- 
tional vivacity, and an aptness at coining occupation 
and amusement out of the most trifling incident, perpe- 
tually relieved the monotony of domestic life; while 
the faint gleam of health that occasionally flitted across 
her cheek, beguiled the anxious foreboding that had 
been indulged concerning her. " A strong hope was 
rising in my heart," says her mother, " that our frail, 
delicate blossom would continue to flourish, and that it 
was possible I might live to behold the perfection of its 
beauty ! Alas ! how uncertain is every earthly pros- 
pect ! Even then the canker was concealed within the 
bright bud, which was eventually to destroy its loveli- 
ness ! About the last of December she was again 
seized with a liver complaint, which, by sympathy, 
affected her lungs, and again awakened all our fears. 
She was confined to her bed, and it was not until 
March that she was able to sit up and walk about her 
room. The confinement then became irksome, but her 

4 



42 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

kind and skilful physician had declared that she must 
not be permitted to venture out until mild weather in 
April" During this fit of illness her mind had remained 
in an unusual state of inactivity ; but with the opening 
of spring, and the faint return of health, it broke forth 
with a brilliancy and a restless excitability that asto- 
nished and alarmed. " In conversation," says her mo- 
ther, " her sallies of wit were dazzling. She composed 
and wrote incessantly, or rather would have done so, 
had I not interposed my authority to prevent this 
unceasing tax upon both her mental and physical 
strength. Fugitive pieces were produced every day, 
such as, ' The Shunamite,' * Belshazzar's Feast,' ' The 
Nature of Mind,' ' Boabdil el Chico,' &c. She seemed 
to exist only in the regions of poetry." We cannot 
help thinking that these moments of intense poetical 
exaltation sometimes approached to delirium, for we 
are told by her mother that " the image of her departed 
sister Lucretia mingled in all her aspirations ; the holy 
elevation of Lucretia's character had taken deep hold 
of her imagination, and in her moments of enthusiasm 
she felt that she held close and intimate communion 
with her beatified spirit." 

This intense mental excitement continued after she 
w^as permitted to leave her room, and her application to 
her books and papers was so eager and almost impas- 
sioned, that it was found expedient again to send her on 
an excursion. A visit to some relatives, and a sojourn 
among the beautiful scenery on the Mohawk river, had 
a salutary effect; but on returning home she was again 
attacked with alarming indisposition, which confined her 
to her bed. 

" The struggle between nature and disease," says her 



BIOGRAPHY. 43 

mother, " was for a time doubtful ; she was, however, 
at length restored to us. With returning health, her 
mental labours were resumed. I reasoned and entreated, 
but at last became convinced that my only way was to 
let matters take their course. If restrained in her 
favourite pursuits she was unhappy. To acquire useful 
knowledge v/as a motive sufficient to induce her to sur- 
mount all obstacles. I could only select for her a course 
of calm and quiet teading, which, while it furnished real 
food for the mind, would compose rather than excite the 
imagination. She read much, and wrote a great deal. 
As for myself, I lived in a state of constant anxiety lest 
these labours should prematurely destroy this deUcate 
bud." 

In the autumn of 1835, Dr. Davidson made arrange- 
ments to remove his family to a rural residence near 
New York, pleasantly situated on the banks of the 
Sound, or East River, as it is commonly called. The 
following extract of a letter from Margaret to Moss 
Kent, Esq.,* will show her anticipations and plans on 
this occasion. 

* This gentleman was an early and valued friend of the Davidson 
family, and is honourably mentioned by Mr. Morse for the interest he 
took in the education of Lucretia. The notice of Mr. Morse, however, 
leaves it to be supposed that Mr. Kent's acquaintance with Dr. and Mrs. 
Davidson was brought about by his admiration of their daughter's 
talents, and commenced with overtures for her instruction. The fol- 
lowing extract of a letter from Mrs. Davidson will place this matter in a 
proper light, and show that these offers on the part of Mr. Kent, and the 
partial acceptance of them by Dr. and Mrs. Davidson were warranted 
by the terms of intimacy which before existed between them. " I had 
the pleasure," says Mrs. Davidson, " to know Mr. Kent before my mar- 
riage, after which he frequently called at our house when visiting his 
sister, with whom I was on terms of intimacy. On one of these occa- 
sions he saw Lucretia. He had often seen her when a child, but she 



44 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

September 20, 1835. 

" We shall soon leave Ballston for Nev^^ York. We 
are to reside in a beautiful spot, upon the East River, 
near the Shot Tower, four miles from town, romanti- 
cally called Ruremont. Will it not be delightful ! 
Reunited to father and brothers, we must, we will 
be happy ! We shall keep a horse and a little pleasure- 
waggon, to transport us to and from town. But I 
intend my time shall be constantly employed in my 
studies, which I hope I shall continue to pursue at 
home. I wish (and mamma concurs in the opinion 
that it is best) to devote this winter to the study of the 
Latin and French languages, while music and dancing 
will unbend my mind after close application to those 
studies, and give me that recreation which mother 
deems requisite for me. If father can procure private 
teachers for me, I shall be saved the dreadful alternative 
of a boarding-school. Mother could never endure the 
thought of one for me, and my own aversion is equally 

had changed much. Her uncommon personal beauty, graceful manners, 
and superior intellectual endowments made a strong impression on him. 
He conversed with her, and examined her on the different branches 
which she was studying, and pronounced her a good English scholar. 
He also found her well read, and possessing a fund of general informa- 
tion. He warmly expressed his admiration of her talents, and urged 
me to consent that he should adopt her as his daughter, and complete 
her education on the most liberal plan. I so far acceded to his proposi- 
tion as to permit him to place her with Mrs. Willard, and assured him 
I would take his generous offer into consideration. Had she lived, we 
should have complied with his wishes, and Lucretia would have been 
the child of his adoption. The pure and disinterested friendship of this 
excellent man continued until the day of his death. For Margaret he 
manifested the affection of a father, and the attachment was returned 
by her with all the warmth of a young and grateful heart. She always 
addressed him as her dear uncle Kent." 



BIOGRAPHY. 45 

strong. Oh! my dear uncle, you must come and see 
us. Come soon and stay long. Try to be with us at 
Christmas. Mother's heahh is not as good as when you 
were here. I hope she will be benefited by a residence 
in her native city — in the neighbourhood of those friends 
she best loves. The state of her mind has an astonish- 
ing effect upon her health." 

The following letter to the same gentleman, is dated 
October 18, 1835. " We are now at Ruremont, and a 
more delightful place I never saw. The house is large, 
pleasant, and commodious, and the old-fashioned style 
of every thing around it transports the mind to days 
long gone by, and my imagination is constantly upon 
the rack to burden the past with scenes transacted on 
this very spot. In the rear of the mansion a lawn, 
spangled with beautiful flowers, and shaded by spread- 
ing trees, slopes gently down to the river side, where 
vessels of every description are constantly spreading 
their white sails to the wind. In front, a long shady 
avenue leads to the door, and a large extent of beautiful 
undulating ground is spread with fruit-trees of every 
description. In and about the house there are so many 
little nooks and byplaces, that sometimes I fancy it has 
been the resort of smugglers ; and who knows but I 
shall yet find their hidden treasures somewhere ? Do 
come and see us, my dear uncle ; but you must come 
soon, if you would enjoy any of the beauties of the 
place. The trees have already doffed their robe of 
green, and assumed the red and yellow of autumn, and 
the paths are strewed w^ith fallen leaves. But there is 
loveliness even in the decay of nature. But do, do 
come soon, or the branches will be leafless, and the cold 



46 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

winds will prevent the pleasant rambles we now enjoy. 
Dear mother has twice accompanied me a short dis- 
tance about the grounds, and indeed I think her health 
has improved since we removed to New York, though 
she is still very feeble. Her mind is much relieved, 
having her little family gathered once more around her. 
You well know how great an effect her spirits have upon 
her health. Oh ! if my dear mother is only in com- 
fortable health, and you will come, I think I shall 
spend a delightful winter prosecuting my studies at 
home." 

" For a short time," writes Mrs. Davidson, " she 
seemed to luxuriate upon the beauties of this lovely 
place. She selected her own room, and adjusted all 
her little tasteful ornaments. Her books and drawing 
implements were transported to this chosen spot. Still 
she hovered around me like my shadow. Mother's 
room was still her resting-place ; mother's bosom her 
sanctuary. She sketched a plan for one or two poems 
which were never finished. But her enjoyment was 
soon interrupted. She was again attacked by her old 
enemy, and though her confinement to her room was of 
short duration, she did not get rid of her cough. A 
change now came over her mind. Hitherto she had 
always delighted in serious conversation on heaven ; 
the pure and elevated occupations of saints and angels 
in a future state had proved a delightful source of con- 
templation ; and she would become so animated that it 
seemed sometimes as if she would fly to realize her 
hopes and joys ! — Now her young heart appeared to 
cling to life and its enjoyments, and more closely than I 
had ever known it. ' She was never ill.' — When asked 



BIOGRAPHY. 47 

the question, * Margaret, how are you ?" * Well, quite 
well,' was her reply, when it was obvious to me, who 
watched her every look, that she had scarcely strength 
to sustain her weak frame. She saw herself the last 
daughter of her idolizing parents — the only sister of her 
devoted brothers ! Life had acquired new charms ; 
though she had always been a happy, light-hearted 
child." 

The following lines, written about this time, show the 
elasticity of her spirit, and the bounding vivacity of her 
imagination, that seemed to escape, as in a dream, from 
the frail tenement of clay in which they were encased : 

STANZAS. 

Oh for the pinions of a bird, 

To bear me far away, 
Where songs of other lands are heard, 

And other waters play ! 

For some aerial car, to fly 

On through the realms of light. 
To regions rife with poesy, 

And teeming with delight. 

O'er many a wild and classic stream 

In ecstasy I'd bend, 
And hail each ivy-cover'd tower, 

As though it were a friend. 

O'er piles where many a wintry blast 

Is swept in mournful tones. 
And fraught with scenes long glided past, 

It shrieks, and sighs, and moans. 

Through many a shadowy grove, and round 

Full many a cloister'd hall. 
And corridors, where every step 

With echoing peal doth fall. 



48 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Enchanted with the dreariness. 
And awe-struck with the gloom, 

I would wander, like a spectre, 
'Mid the regions of the tomb. 

And Memory her enchanting veil 
Around my soul should twine. 

And Superstition, wildly pale. 
Should woo me to her shrine ; 

I'd cherish still her witching gloom. 
Half shrinking in my dread. 

But, powerless to dissolve the spell. 
Pursue her fearful tread. 

Oh what unmingled pleasure then 
My youthful heart would feel, 

As o'er its thrilling cords each thought 
Of former days would steah 

Of centuries in oblivion wrapt. 
Of forms whi(jji long were cold. 

And all of terror, all of wo. 
That history's page has told. 

How fondly in my bosom 

"Would its monarch, Fancy, reign. 

And spurn earth's meaner offices 
With glorious disdain. 

Amid the scenes of past delight, 

Or misery, I'd roam, 
Whei-e ruthless tyrants sway'd in might. 

Where princes found a home. 

Where heroes have enwreathed their brows 

With chivalric renown. 
Where beauty's hand, as valour's meed. 

Hath twined the laurel crown. 



BIOGRAPHY. 49 

I'd stand where proudest kings have stood, 

Or kneel where slaves have knelt, 
Till wrapt in magic solitude, 

I feel what they have felt. 

Oh for the pinions of a bird, 

To waft me far away, 
Where songs of other lands are heard, 

And other waters play. 

About this time Mrs. Davidson received a letter from 
the EngUsh gentleman for whom Margaret, when quite 
a child, had conceived such a friendship, her dear elder 
brother, as she used to call him. The letter bore testi- 
mony to his undiminished regard. He was in good 
health ; married to a ver}^ estimable and lovely w^oman ; 
w^as the father of a fine little girl, and was at Havana 
wdth his family, where he kindly entreated Mrs. David- 
son and Margaret to join them ; being sure that a win- 
ter passed in that mild cHmate would have the happiest 
effect upon their healths. His doors, his heart, he 
added, were open to receive them, and his amiable 
consort impatient to bid them welcome. " Margaret," 
says Mrs. Davidson, •' was overcome by the perusal of 
this letter. She laughed and wept alternately. One 
moment urged me to go, ' she was herself well, but 
she was sure it would cure me ;' the next moment 
felt as though she could not leave the friends to whom 
she had so recently been reunited. Oh ! had I gone at 
that time, perhaps my child might still have lived to 
bless me !" 

During the first weeks of Margaret's residence at 
Ruremont, the character and situation of the place 
seized powerfully upon her imagination. " The curious 
structure of this old-fashioned house," says Mrs. David- 



50 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

son, " its picturesque appearance, the varied and beau- 
tiful grounds which surrounded it, called up a thousand 
poetic images and ronfiantic ideas. A long gallery, a 
winding staircase, a dark, narrow passage, a trap-door, 
large apartnnents with massive doors, and heavy iron 
bars and bolts, all set her mind teeming with recollec- 
tions of what she had read and imagined of old castles, 
banditti, smugglers, &c. She roamed over the place in 
perfect ecstasy, peopling every part with images of her 
own imagination, and fancying it the scene of some 
foregone event of dark and thrilling interest." There 
was, in fact, some palpable material for all this spinning 
and weaving of the fancy. The writer of this memoir 
visited Ruremont at the time it was occupied by the 
Davidson family. It was a spacious, and somewhat 
crazy and poetical-looking mansion, with large waste 
apartments. The grounds were rather wild and over- 
grown, but so much the more picturesque. It stood on 
the banks of the Sound, the waters of which rushed, 
with whirling and impetuous tides, below, hurrying on 
to the dangerous strait of Hell Gate. Nor was this 
neighbourhood without its legendary tales. These wild 
and lonely shores, had, in former times, been the resort 
of smugglers and pirates. Hard by this very place, 
stood the country retreat of Ready-Money Prevost, of 
dubious and smuggling memory, with his haunted tomb, 
in which he was said to conceal his contraband riches ; 
and scarce a secret spot about these shores but had 
some tradition connected with it of Kidd the pirate and 
his buried treasures. All these circumstances were 
enough to breed thick-coming fancies in so imaginative 
a brain, and the result was a drama in six acts, entitled , 
" The Smuggler," the scene of whicli was laidat Rure- ' 



*ft 



BIOGRAPHY. 51 

mont in the old time of the province. The play was 
written with great rapidity, and, considering she was 
little more than twelve years of age, and had never 
visited a theatre but once in her life, evinced great 
aptness and dramatic talent. It was to form a domestic 
entertainment for Christmas holidays ; the spacious back 
parlour was to be fitted up for the theatre. In planning 
and making arrangements for the performance, she 
seemed perfectly happy, and her step resumed its 
wonted elasticity, though her anxious mother often 
detected a suppressed cough, and remarked a hectic 
flush upon her check. " We now found," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " that private teachers were not to be pro- 
cured at Ruremont, and I feared to have her enter upon 
a course of study which had been talked of, before we 
came to this place. I thought she was too feeble for 
close mental application, while she was striving, by 
the energies of her mind and bodily exertion, (which 
only increased the morbid excitement of her system,) to 
overcome disease, that she feared was about to fasten 
itself upon her. She was the more anxious, therefore, 
to enter upon her studies ; and when she saw soHcitude 
in my countenance and manner, she would fix her sweet 
sad eyes upon my face, as if she would read my very 
soul, yet dreaded to know what she might find written 
there. I knew and could understand her feelings ; she 
also understood mine ; and there seemed to be a tacit 
compact between us that this subject, at 'present, was 
forbidden ground. Her father and brothers were lulled 
into security by her cheerful manner and constant 
assertion that she was well, and considered her cough 
the effect of recent cold. My opinion to the contrary 
was regarded as the result of extreme maternal anxiety." 



# 



52 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

She accordingly went to town three times a week, to 
take lessons in French, music, and dancing. Her pro- 
gress in French was rapid, and the correctness and 
elegance of her translations surprised her teachers. 
Her friends in the city, seeing her look so well and 
appear so sprightly, encouraged her to believe that air 
and exercise would prove more beneficial than confine- 
ment to the house. She went to town in the morning 
and returned in the evening in an open carriage, with 
her father and one of her elder brothers, each of 
whom was confined to his respective office until night. 
In this way she was exposed to the rigours of an 
unusually cold season ; yet she heeded them not, but 
returned home full of animation to join her little 
brothers in preparations for their holiday fete. Their 
anticipations of a joyous Christmas were doomed to 
sad disappointment. As the time approached, two of 
her brothers were taken ill. One of these, a beautiful 
boy about nine years of age, had been the favourite 
companion of her recreations, and she had taken great 
interest in his mental improvement. " Towards the 
close of 1835," says her mother, "he began to droop; 
his cheek grew pale, his step languid, and his bright 
eye heavy. Instead of rolling the hoop, and bounding 
across the lawn to meet his sister on her return from 
the city, he drooped by the side of his feeble mother, 
and could not bear to be parted from her ; at length he 
was taken to his bed, and, after lingering four months, 
he died. This was Margaret's first acquaintance with 
death. She witnessed his gradual decay almost uncon- 
sciously, but still persuaded herself ' he will, he must 
get well !' She saw her sweet little playfellow reclining 
upon my bosom during his last agonies ; she witnessed 



BIOGRAPHY. 53 

the bright glow which flashed upon his long-faded 
cheek ; she beheld the unearthly light of his beautiful 
eye, as he pressed his dying lips to mine, and exclaimed, 
* Mother ! dear mother ! the last hour has come !' Oh ! 
it was indeed an hour of anguish never to be forgotten. 
Its effect upon her youthful mind was as lasting as her 
life. The sudden change fron> life and animation to 
the still unconsciousness of death, for the time almost 
paralysed her. She shed no tear, but stood like a 
statue upon the scene of death. But when her eldest 
brother tenderly led her from the room, her tears 
gushed forth — it was near midnight, and the first thing 
that aroused her to a sense of what was going on 
around her, was the thought of my bereavement, and a 
conviction that it was her province to console me." 

We subjoin a record, from her own pen, of her 
feelings on this lamentable occasion. 



ON THE CORPSE OF MY LITTLE BROTHER KENT. 



Beauteous form of soulless clay ! 

Image of what once was life I 
Hush'd is thy pulse's feeble play, 

And ceased the pangs of mortal strife. 

Oh ! I have heard thy dying groan, 
Have seen thy last of earthly pain ; 

And while I weep that thou art gone, 
I cannot wish thee here again. 

For ah ! the calm and peaceful smile 
Upon that clay-cold brow of thine, 

Speaks of a spirit freed from sin, 
A spirit joyful and divine. 



54 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But thou art gone ! and this cold clay- 
Is all that now remains of thee ; 

For thy freed soul hath wing'd its way 
To blessed immortality. 

That dying smile, that dying groan, 

I never, never can forget, 
Till death's cold hand hath clasp'd my own, 

His impress on my brow has set. 

Those low, and sweet, and plaintive tones, 
Which o'er my heart like music swept. 

And the deep, deathlike, chilling moans. 
Which from thy heaving bosom crept. 

Oh ! thou wert beautiful and fair. 

Our loveliest and our dearest one ! 
No more thy pains or joys we share. 

No more — my brother, thou art gone. 

Thou'rt gone ! What agony, what wo 

In that brief sentence is express'd ! 
Oh that the burning tears could flow, 

And draw this mountain from my breast ! 

The anguish of the mother was still more intense, as 
she saw her bright and beautiful but perishable offspring 
thus, one by one, snatched away from her. " My own 
weak frame," says she, " was unable longer to sustain 
the efTecls of long watching and deep grief. I had not 
only lost my lovely boy, but I felt a strong conviction 
that I must soon resign my Margaret; or rather, that 
she would soon follow me to a premature grave. 
Although she still persisted in the belief that she was 
well, the irritating cough, the hectic flush, (so often 
mistaken for the bloom of health,) the hurried beating 



BIOGRAPHY. 55 

of the heart, and the drenching night perspirations 
confirmed me in this belief, and I sank under this 
accumulated load of affliction. For three weeks I 
hovered upon the borders of the grave, and when I 
arose from this bed of pain — so feeble that I could not 
sustain my own weight, it was to witness the rupture 
of a blood-vessel in her lungs, caused by exertions to 
suppress a cough. Oh ! it was agony to see her thus ! 
I was compelled to conceal every appearance of alarm, 
lest the agitation of her mind should produce fatal 
consequences. As I seated myself by her, she raised 
her speaking eyes to mine with a mournful, inquiring 
gaze, and as she read the anguish which I could not 
conceal, she turned away with a look of despair. She 
spoke not a word, but silence, still, deathlike silence, 
pervaded the apartment." The best of medical aid 
was called in, but the physicians gave no hope ; they 
considered it a deep-seated case of pulmonary consump- 
tion. All that could be done was to alleviate the symp- 
toms, and protract Hfe as long as possible by lessening 
the excitement of the system. When Mrs. Davidson 
returned to the bedside, after an interview with the 
physicians, she was regarded with an anxious, search- 
ing look, by the lovely little sufferer, but not a question 
was made. Margaret seemed fearful of receiving a 
discouraging reply, and " lay, all pale and still, (except 
when agitated by the cough,) striving to calm the 
tumult of her thoughts," while her mother seated her- 
self by her pillow, trembling with weakness and sorrow. 
Long and anxious were the days and nights spent in 
watching over her. Every sudden movement or emo- 
tion excited the hemorrhage. " Not a murmur escaped 
her lips," says her mother, "during her protracted 



56 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

sufferings. * How are you, love ? how have you rested 
during the night? 'Well, dear mamma; I have slept 
sweetly.' I have been night after night beside her 
restless couch, wiped the cold dew from her brow, and 
kissed her faded cheek in all the agony of grief, while she 
unconsciously slept on ; or if she did awake, her calm 
sweet smile, which seemed to emanate from heaven, 
has, spite of my reason, lighted my heart with hope. 
Except w^hen very ill, she was ever a bright dreamer. 
Her visions were usually of an unearthly cast: about 
heaven and angels. She was wandering among the 
stars ; her sainted sisters were her pioneers ; her cherub 
brother walked hand in hand with her through the 
gardens of paradise ! I was always an early riser, but 
after Margaret began to decline I never disturbed 
her until time to rise for breakfast, a season of social 
intercourse in which she delighted to unite, and from 
which she was never willing to be absent. Often when 
I have spoken to her she would exclaim, * Mother, you 
have disturbed the brightest visions that ever mortal 
was blessed with ! I was in the midst of such scenes 
of delight ! Cannot I have time to finish my dream V 
And when I told her how long it was until breakfast, 
* It will do,' she would say, and again lose herself in 
her bright imaginings; for I considered these as mo- 
ments of inspiration rather than sleep. She told me it 
was not sleep. I never knew but one, except Margaret, 
who enjoyed this delightful and mysterious source of 
happiness, that one was her departed sister Lucretia. 
When awaking from these reveries, an almost ethereal 
light played about her eye, which seemed to irradiate 
her whole face. A holy calm pervaded her manner, 
and in truth she looked more like an angel who had 



BIOGRAPHY. 57 

been communing with kindred spirits in the world of 
light, than any thing of a grosser nature." 

How truly does this correspond with Milton's exqui- 
site description of the heavenly influences that minister 
to virgin innocence — 

"A thousand liv'ried angels lackey her, 
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt; 
And in clear dream and solemn vision, 
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear ; 
Till oft converse with heavenly habitants 
Begin to cast a beam on the outward shape. 
The unpolluted temple of the mind. 
And turn it by degrees to the soul's essence, 
Till all be made immortal." 

Of the images and speculations that floated in her 
mind during these half dreams, half reveries, we may 
form an idea from the following lines, written on one 
occasion after what her mother used to term her 
" descent into the world of reahty." 

THE JOYS OF HEAVEN. ^ 

Oh who can tell the joy and peace 

Which souls redeem'd shall know, 
When all their earthly sorrows cease, 

Their pride, and pain, and wo ! 
Who may describe the matchless love 
Which reigneth with the saints above ? 

What earthly tongue can ever tell 

The pure, unclouded joy 
Which in each gentle soul doth swell, 

Unmingled with alloy. 
As, bending to the Lord Most High, 
They sound his praises through the sky ? 
5 



58 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Through the high regions of the air, 
On angels wings, they glide, 

And gaze in wondering silence there 
On scenes to us denied : 

Their minds expanding every hour. 

And opening like the summer flower. 

Though not like them to fade away. 
To die, and bloom no more ; 

Beyond the reach of fell decay. 
They stand in light and power ; 

But pure, eternal, free from care, 

They join in endless praises there ! 

When first they leave this world of wo 
For fair, immortal scenes of light, 

Angels attend them from below, 

And upward wing their joyful flight ; 

Where, fired with heavenly rapture's flame, 

They raise on high Jehovah's name. 

O'er the broad arch of heaven it peals. 
While shouts of praise unnumber'd flow; 

The full, sweet notes sublimely swell, 
And prostrate angels humbly bow ; 

Each harp is tuned to joy above, 

Its theme, a Saviour's matchless love. 

The dulcet voice, which here below 

Charm'd with delight each listening ear, 

Mix'd with no lingering tone of wo. 
Swelling harmonious, soft and clear, 

Will sweetly fill the courts above. 

In strains of heavenly peace and love. 

The brilliant genius, which on earth 
Is struggling with disease and pain. 

Will there unfold in power and light, 
Nought its bright current to restrain ; 

And as each brilliant day rolls on, 

'Twill find some grace, till then unknown. 



BIOGRAPHY. 59 

And as the countless years flit by, 

Their minds progressing still, 
The more they know, these saints on high 

Praise more His sovereign will ; 
No breath from sorrow's whirlwind blast 
Around their footsteps cast. 

From their high throne they gaze abroad 

On vast creation's wondrous plan, 
And own the power, the might of God, 

In each resplendent work they scan ; 
Though sun and moon to nought return, 
Like star these souls redeem'd shall burn. 

Oh! who could wish to stay below, 

If sure of such a home as this, 
Where streams of love serenely flow. 

And every heart is filled with bliss ? 
They praise, and worship, and adore 
The Lord of heaven for ever more. 

During this dangerous illness she became acquainted 
with Miss Sedgwick. The first visit of that most 
excellent and justly distinguished person, was when 
Margaret was in a state of extreme debility. It laid 
the foundation of an attachment on the part of the 
latter, which continued until her death. The visit was 
repeated ; a correspondence afterwards took place, and 
the friendship of Miss Sedgwick became to the little 
enthusiast a source of the worthiest pride and purest 
enjoyment throughout the remainder of her brief ex- 
istence. 

At length the violence of her malady gave way to 
skilful remedies and the most tender and unremitting 
assiduity. When enabled to leave her chamber, she 
rallied her spirits, made great exertions to be cheerful, 
and strove to persuade herself that all might yet be 



60 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

well with her. Even her parents, with that singular 
self-delusion inseparable from this cruelly flattering 
malady, began to indulge a trembhng hope that she 
might still be spared to them. 

In the month of July, her health being sufficiently 
re-established to bear the fatigues of travelling, she was 
taken by her mother and eldest brother on a tour to 
Dutchess County and the western part of New York. 
On leaving home, she wrote the following lines, expres- 
sive of the feelings called forth by the events of the few 
preceding months, and of a foreboding that she should 
never return: 

FAREWELL TO RUREMONT. 

Oh ! sadly I gaze on this beautiful landscape, 
And silent and slow do the big tear-drops swell ; 

And I haste to ray task, while the deep sigh is breaking. 
To bid thee, sweet Rurement, a lasting farewell. 

Oh ! soft are the breezes which play round the valley, 
And warm are the sunbeams which gild thee with light, 

All clear and serenely the deep waves are rolling, 
The sky in its radiance is dazzlingly bright. 

Oh ! gaily the birds 'mid thy dark vines are sporting. 
And, heaven-taught, pouring their gladness in song; 

While the rose and the lily their fair heads are bending 
To hear the soft anthems float gently along. 

Full many an hour have I bent o'er thy waters, 

Or watch'd the light clouds with a joy-beaming eye. 

Till, delighted, I long'd for eagle's swift pinions. 
To pierce the full depths of that beautiful sky. 

Though wild were the fancies which dwelt in my bosom, 
Though endless the visions which swept o'er my soul, 

Indulging those dreams was my dearest enjoyment — 
Enjoyment unmingled, unchained by control ! 



BIOGRAPHY. 61 

But each garden of earth has a sometliing of sorrow, 

A thorn in its rose, or a bhght in its breeze. 
Though blooming as Eden, a shadow hangs o'er thee, 

The spirit of darkness, of pain, of disease 1 

Yes, Ruremont ! thy brow, in its loveUness deck'd, 

Is entwined with a fatal but beautiful wreath. 
For thy green leaves have shrunk at the mourner's cold touch, 

And thy pale flowers have wept in the presence of death. 

Yon violets, which bloom in their delicate freshness, 
Were strew'd o'er the grave of our fairest and best ; 

Yon roses, which charm by their richness and fragrance, 
Have wither'd and died on his icy-cold breast. 

The soft voice of spring had just breathed o'er the valley, 
The sweet birds just caroll'd their song in her bower, 

When the angel of death in his terror swept o'er us, 
And placed in his bosom our fragile young flower. 

Thus, Ruremont, we mourn not thy beauties alone, 
Thy flowers in their freshness, thy stream in its pride. 

But we leave the loved scene of our mourning and tears, 
We leave the dear spot where our cherish'd one died. 

The mantle of beauty thrown gracefully o'er thee, 

Must touch a soft chord in each delicate heart ; 
But the tie is more sacred which bids us deplore thee, 

Endear'd by affliction 'tis harder to part. 

The scene of enjoyment is ever most lovely. 

Where blissful young spirits dance mirthful and glad ; 

But when sorrow has mingled her tears with our pleasure. 
Our love is more tender, our parting more sad. 

How mild is the wing of this delicate zephyr. 

Which fans in its coolness my feverish brow! 
But that light wing is laden with breezes that wither. 

And check the warm current of life in its flow. 



62 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Why blight such an Eden, oh spirit of terror ! 

Which sweepest thy thousands each hour to the tomb ? 
Why, why shouldst thou roam o'er this beautiful valley, 

And mingle thy breath with the rose's perfume ? 

The sun rises bright o'er the clear dancing waters. 

And tinges with gold every light waving tree, 
And the young birds are singing their welcome to morning — 

Alas ! they will sing it no longer for me ! 

The young buds of summer their soft eyes are opening. 
The wild flowers are bending the pure ripples o'er ; 

But I bid them farewell, and my heart is nigh breaking 
To think I shall see them and tend them no more. 

I mark yonder path, where so oflen I've wander'd, 
Yon moss-covered rock, with its sheltering tree, 

And a sigh of deep sadness bursts forth to remember 
That no more its soft verdure shall blossom for me. 

How oflen my thoughts, to these loved scenes returning, 
Shall brood o'er the past -with its joy and its pain : 

Till waking at last from the long, pleasing slumber, 
I sigh to behold thee, thus blooming, again. 

The little party was absent on its western tour about 
two months. " Margaret," says her mother, " appeared 
to enjoy the scenery, and every thing during the journey 
interested her. But there was a sadness in her coun- 
tenance, a pensiveness in her manner, unless excited by 
external circumstances which deeply affected me. She 
watched every variation in my countenance ; marked 
every little attention directed to herself, such as an 
alteration in her diet, dress, exposure to the changes of 
weather, yet still discovered an unwillingness to speak 
of her declining health, and laboured to conceal every 



BIOGRAPHY. 63 

unfavourable symptom or change for the worse. This, 
of course, imposed upon me the most painful restraint. 
How heart-breaking to find that she considered my 
tongue as the herald of mournful tidings, and my face 
as the mirror of evil to come. How true that self- 
deception seems to be almost an invariable symptom 
attending this dreadful complaint ! Margaret, all un- 
conscious of the rapid strides of the destroyer, taught 
herself to believe that the alarming symptoms of her 
case existed only in the imagination of her too anxious 
mother. Yet knowing my experience in these matters, 
she still doubted and trembled and feared to ask, lest a 
confirmation of her vague apprehensions should be the 
result. She avoided the slightest allusion to the subject 
of her disease in any way ; and in the morbid excite- 
ment of her mind it appeared to her almost like 
accusing her of something wrong to say she was not 
well." 

The following letter w^as written by her to Miss 
Sedgwick, after her arrival in Dutchess County. 

" Lithgow, Dutchess County. 

" Happy as I am, my dear madam, in the privilege 
of writing to you, I cannot permit another day to pass 
ere I inform you of our safe arrival at one of the most 
lovely spots in this beautiful and healthy country. Our 
passage up the river was rather tedious, being debarred 
the pleasure of remaining upon deck, but this privation 
was counterbalanced by the pleasure of a few moments' 
conversation with my dear brother, who was permitted to 
meet us w^hen the boat stopped at West Point. Arrived 
at Poughkeepsie, brother M. procured a private car- 
riage, which was to convey us to the end of our 



64 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

journey, a distance of twenty miles. The drive was 
delightful ! The scenery ever changing, ever beautiful ! 
We arrived at Lithgow without much fatigue, where a 
hearty w^elcome, that sweetest of cordials, was awaiting 
us. Oh ! it is a lovely spot ! I thought Ruremont the 
perfection of beauty ! but here I find the flowers are as 
blooming, the birds as gay, the air as sweet, and the 
prospect far more varied and extensive; 'tis true we 
have lost the beautiful East River, with its crowd of 
vessels sweeping gracefully along, but here are hills 
crowned with the richest foliage, valleys sprinkled 
with flowers, and watered with winding rivulets ; and 
here, what we prize more than all, a mild, salubrious 
air, which seems, in the words of the divine poet, " to 
bear healing in its wings." Dear mother bore the 
fatigue of our journey better than we anticipated ; and 
although I do not think she is permanently better, she 
certainly breathes more freely, and seems altogether 
more comfortable than w^hen in the city. Oh ! how 
sincerely I hope that a change of air and scene may 
raise her spirits and renovate her strength. She is now 
in the midst of friends whom she has known and loved 
for many years ; and surrounded by scenes connected 
with many of her earliest remembrances. Farewell, 
my dear madam ! Please give my love to your dear 
little nieces ; and should you have the leisure and incli- 
nation to answer this, believe me your letter will be a 
source of much gratification to your 

Highly obliged little friend, 

M. M. Davidson. 
Miss Catherine Sedgwick. 
August, 1836." 



BIOGRAPHY. 65 

The travellers returned to Ruremont in September. 
The tour had been of service to Margaret, and she 
endeavoured to persuade herself that she was quite 
well. If asked about her health, her reply was, that 
" if her friends did not tell her she was ill, she should 
not, from her own feelings, suspect it." That she was, 
notwithstanding, dubious on this subject, was evident 
from her avoiding to speak about it, and from the 
uneasiness she manifested when it was alluded to. It 
was still more evident from the change that took place 
in her habits and pursuits ; she tacitly adopted the 
course of conduct that had repeatedly and anxiously, 
but too often vainly, been urged by her mother, as 
calculated to allay the morbid irritability of her system. 
She gave up her studies, rarely indulged in writing or 
drawing, and contented herself with light reading, with 
playing a few simple airs on the piano, and with any 
other trivial mode of passing away the time. The 
want of her favourite occupations, however, soon made 
the hours move heavily with her. Above all things, 
she missed the exciting exercise of the pen, against 
which she had been especially warned. Her mother 
observed the listlessness and melancholy that were 
stealing over her, and hoped a change of scene might 
banish them. The airs from the river, too, had been 
pronounced unfavourable to her health ; the family, 
therefore, removed t<3 town. The change of residence, 
however, did not produce the desired effect. She be- 
came more and more dissatisfied with herself, and with 
the life of idleness, as she considered it, that she was 
leading ; but still she had resolved to give the prescribed 
system a thorough trial. A new source of solicitude 
was now awakened in the bosom of her anxious mother, 



66 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

who read in her mournfully quiet manner and submissive 
silence, the painful effects of compliance with her advice. 
There was not a murmur, however, from the lips of 
Margaret, to give rise to this solicitude; on the con- 
trary, whenever she caught her mother's eye fixed 
anxiously and inquiringly on her, she would turn away 
and assume an air of cheerfulness. 

Six months had passed in this inactive manner. 
" She was seated one day by my side," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " weary and restless, and scarcely knowing 
what to do with herself, vv^hen, marking the traces of 
grief upon my face, she threw her arms about my 
neck, and kissing me, exclaimed ' My dear, dear 
mother !' ' What is it affects you now, my child V 

* Oh ! I know you are longing for something from my 
pen !' I saw the secret craving of the spirit that gave 
rise to the suggestion. * I do indeed, my dear, delight 
in the effusions from your pen, but the exertion will 
injure you.' ' Mamma, I must write ! I can hold out 
no longer! I will return to my pen, my pencil, and my 
books, and shall again be happy !' I pressed her to my 
bosom, and cautioned her to remember she was feeble. 

* Mother,' exclaimed she, ' I am well ! I wish you were 
only as well as I am !' " 

The heart of the mother was not proof against these 
appeals : indeed she had almost as much need of self- 
denial on this subject as her child, so much did she 
delight in these early blossomings of her talent. Mar- 
garet was again left to her own impulses. All the 
frivolous expedients for what is usually termed killing 
time were discarded by her with contempt ; her studies 
were resumed ; in the sacred writings and" in the pages 
of history she sought fitting aliment for her mind, half 



BIOGRAPHY. 67 

famished by its long abstinence ; her poetical vein again 
burst forth, and the following lines, written at the time, 
show the excitement and elevation of her feehngs : 

EARTH. 

Earth I thou hast nought to satisfy 

The cravings of immortal mind ! 
Earth ! thou hast nothing pure and high, 

The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 

Impatient of its long delay, 

The pinion'd spirit fain would roam, 
And leave this crumbling house of clay, 

To seek above its own bright home ! 

The spirit, 'tis a spark of light 

Struck from our God's eternal throne. 
Which pierces through these clouds of night. 

And longs to shine where once it shone ! 

Earth I there will come an awful day, 

When thou shalt crumble into nought ; 
When thou shalt melt beneath that ray 

From whence thy splendours first were caught. 

Quench'd in the glories of its God, 

Yon burning lamp shall then expire ; 
And flames, from heaven's own altar sent. 

Shall light the great funereal pyre. 

Yes, thou must die I and yon pure depths 
Back from thy darken'd brow shall roll ; 

But never can the tyrant death 
Arrest this feeble, trusting soul. 

When that great voice, which form'd thee first. 

Shall tell, surrounding world, thy doom. 
Then the pure soul, enchain'd by thee, 

Shall rise triumphant o'er thy tomb. 



68 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Then on, still on, the unfetter'd mind 

Through realms of endless space shall fly ; 

No earth to dim, no chain to bind, 
Too pure too sin, too great to die. 

Earth ! thou hast nought to satisfy 
The cravings of immortal mind ! 

Earth ! thou hast nothing pure or high. 
The soaring, struggling soul to bind. 

Yet is this never-dying ray 

Caught in thy cold, delusive snares. 

Cased in a cell of mouldering clay, 

And bow'd by woes, and pain, and cares I 

Oh ! how mysterious is the bond 

Which blends the earthly with the pure. 

And mingles that which death may blight 
With that which ever must endure I 

Arise, my soul, from all below. 

And gaze upon thy destined home. 

The heaven of heavens, the throne of God, 
Where sin and care can never come. 

Prepare thee for a state of bliss. 
Unclouded by this mortal veil. 

Where thou shalt see thy Maker's face, 
And dews from heaven's own air inhale. 

How sadly do the sins of earth 
Deface thy purity and light. 

That thus, while gazing at thyself, 
Thou shrink'st in horror at the sight. 

Compound of weakness and of strength. 
Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power ! 

Loftier than earth, or air, or sea. 

Yet meaner than the lowliest flower ! 



BIOGRAPHY. 69 

Soaring- towards heaven, yet clinging still 

To earth, by many a purer tie I 
Longing to breathe a tender air, 

Yet fearing, trembling thus to die ! 

She was soon all cheerfulness and enjoyment. Her 
pen and her pencil were frequently in her hand; she 
occupied herself also with her needle in embroidery on 
canvass, and other fancy work. Hope brightened with 
the exhilaration of her spirits. " I now walk and ride, 
eat and sleep as usual," she observes in a letter to a 
young friend, " and although not well, have strong hopes 
that the opening spring, which renovates the flowers, 
and fields, and streams, will revive my enfeebled frame, 
and restore me to my wonted health." In these moods 
she was the Hfe of the domestic circle, and these moods 
w^ere frequent and long. And here we should observe, 
that though these memoirs, which are furnished princi- 
pally from the recollections of an afflicted mother, may 
too often represent this gifted little being as a feeble 
invalid struggling with mortality, yet in truth her life, 
though a brief, was a bright and happy one. At times 
she was full of playful and innocent gaiety ; at others 
of intense mental exaltation ; and it was the very inten- 
sity of her enjoyment that made her so often indulge in 
those poetic paroxysms, if we may be allowed the ex- 
pression, which filled her mother with alarm. A few 
weeks of this intellectual excitement was followed by 
another rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs, and a 
long interval of extreme debihty. The succeeding win- 
ter was one of vicissitude. She had several attacks of 
bleeding at the lungs, which evidently alarmed her at 
the time, though she said nothing, and endeavoured to 
repress all manifestation of her feelings. If taken sud- 



70 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

denly, she instantly resorted to the sofa, and, by a 
strong effort, strove to suppress every emotion. With 
her eyes closed, her lips compressed, and her thin pale 
hand resting in that of her anxious mother, she seemed 
to be waiting the issue. Not a murmur would escape her 
lips, nor did she ever complain of pain. She would often 
say, by way of consolation, to her mother, "Mamma, 
I am highly favoured. I hardly know what is meant 
by pain. I am sure I never, to my recollection, have 
felt it." The moment she was able to sit up, after one 
of these alarming attacks, every vestige of a sick 
chamber must be removed. No medicine, no cap, no 
bed-gown, no loose wrapper must be in sight. Her 
beautiful dark hair must be parted on her broad, high 
forehead, her dress arranged with the same care and 
neatness as w^hen in perfect health ; indeed she studied 
to banish from her appearance all that might remind 
her friends that her health was impaired, and, if pos- 
sible, to drive the idea from her own thoughts. Her 
reply to every inquiry about her health was, "Well, 
quite well ; or at least / feel so, though mother con- 
nues to treat me as an invalid. True I have a cold, 
attended by a cough, that is not willing to leave me ; 
but when the spring returns, with its mild air and sweet 
blossoms, I think this cough, which alarms mother so 
much, will leave me." 

She had, indeed, a strong desire to Hve; and the 
cause of that desire is indicative of her character. 
With all her retiring modesty, she had an ardent desire 
for literary distinction. The example of her sister 
Lucretia was incessantly, before her; she was her 
leading star, and her whole soul was but to emulate 
her soarings into the pure regions of poetry. Her 



BIOGRAPHY. 71 

apprehensions were that she might be cut off" in the 
immaturity of her powers. A simple, but most touch- 
ing ejaculation, betrayed this feeling, as, when lying on 
a sofa, in one of those alarming paroxysms of her 
malady, she turned her e3^es, full of mournful sweetness, 
upon her mother, and, in a low, subdued voice, ex- 
claimed, " Oh ! my dear, dear mother ! I am so young /" 
We have said that the example of her sister Lucretia 
was incessantly before her, and no better proof can be 
given of it than in the following lines, written at this 
time, which breathe the heavenly aspirations of her pure 
young spirit, in strains, to us, quite unearthly. We may 
have read poetry more artificially perfect in its struc- 
ture, but never any more truly divine in its inspiration. 

TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

My sister ! With that thrilUng word 

What thoughts unnumber'd wildly spring ! 

What echoes in my heart are stirr'd, 

Wliile thus I touch the trembling string I 

My sister I ere this youthful mind 

Could feel the value of thine own ; 
Ere this infantine heart could bind, 

In its deep cell, one look, one tone, 

To glide along on memory's stream, 

And bring back thrilling thoughts of thee ; 

Ere I knew aught but childhood's dream. 
Thy soul had struggled and was free I 

My sister ! with this mortal eye, 

I ne'er shall see thy form again; 
And never shall this mortal ear 

Drink in the sweetness of thy strain I 



72 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Yet fancy wild and glowing love 
Reveal thee to my spirit's view, 

Enwreath'd with graces from above, 

And deck'd in heaven's own fadeless hue. 

Thy glance of pure seraphic light 
Sheds o'er my heart its sofl'ning ray; 

Thy pinions guard my couch by night, 
And hover o'er my path by day. 

I cannot weep that thou art fled, — 
For ever blends my soul with thine ; 

Each thought, by purer impulse led. 
Is soaring on to realms divine. 

Thy glance unfolds my heart of hearts, 
And lays its inmost recess bare ; 

Thy voice a heavenly calm imparts, 
And soothes each wilder passion there. 

I hear thee in the summer breeze, 
See thee in all that's pure or fair ; 

Thy whisper in the murmuring trees. 
Thy breath, thy spirit every where. 

Thine eyes, which watch when mortals sleep, 
Cast o'er my dreams a radiant hue ; 

Thy tears, " such tears as angels weep," 
Fall nightly with the glistening dew. 

Thy fingers wake my youthful lyre, 
And teach its softer strains to flow ; 

Thy spirit checks each vain desire. 
And gilds the low 'ring brow of wo. 

When fancy wings her upward flight 
On through the viewless realms of air, 

Clothed in its robe of matchless light, 
I view thy ransom'd spirit there ! 



BIOGRAPHY. 73 



Far from her wild delusive dreams, 
It leads my raptured soul away, 

Where the pure fount of glory streams, 
And saints live on through endless day. 

When the dim lamp of future years 

Sheds o'er my path its glimmering faint, 

First in the view thy form appears. 
My sister, and my guardian saint ! 

Thou gem of light ! my leading star ! 

What thou hast been, I strive to be ; 
When from the path I wander far. 

Oh turn thy guiding beam on me. 

Teach me to fill thy place below. 
That I may dwell with thee above; 

To soothe, like thee, a mother's wo. 
And prove like thine, a sister's love. 

Thou wert unfit to dwell with clay. 
For sin too pure, for earth too bright ! 

And death, who call'd thee hence away, 
Placed on his brow a gem of light I 

A gem, whose brilliant glow is shed 
Beyond the ocean's swelling wave, 

Which gilds the memory of the dead. 
And pours its radiance on thy grave. 

When day hath left his glowing car. 
And evening spreads her robe of love ; 

When worlds, like travellers from afar. 
Meet in the azure fields above ; 

When all is still, and fancy's realm 

Is opening to the eager view. 
Mine eye full oft, in search of thee. 

Roams o'er that vast expanse of blue. 
6 



74 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

I know that here thy harp is mute, 

And quench'd the bright poetic fire, 
Yet still I bend my ear, to catch 

The hymnings of thy seraph lyre. 

Oh ! if this partial converse now 

So joyous to my heart can be. 
How must the streams of rapture flow 

When both are chainless, both are free ! 

When borne from earth for evermore. 

Our souls in sacred joy unite, 
At God's almighty throne adore. 

And bathe in beams of endless light ! 

Away, away, ecstatic dream ! 

I must not, dare not dwell on thee ; 
My soul, immersed in life's dark stream, 

Is far too earthly to be free. 

Though heaven's bright portal were unclosed. 

And angels wooed me from on high, 
Too much I fear my shrinking soul 

Would cast on earth its longing eye. 

Teach me to fill thy place below, 

That I may dwell with thee above ; 
To soothe, like thee, a mother's wo, 

And prove, like thine, a sister's love. 

It was probably this trembling solicitude about the 
duration of her existence, that naade her so anxious, 
about this time, to employ every interval of her pre- 
carious health in the cultivation of her mental powers. 
Certain it is, during the winter, chequered as it was 
with repeated fits of indisposition, she applied herself to 
historical and other studies with an ardour that often 
made her mother tremble for the consequences. 



BIOGRAPHY. 75 

The following^ letters to a vounf^ female friend were 
written during one of these intervals. 

"New York, February 26, 1837. 

*' Notwithstanding all the dangers which naight have 
befallen your letter, my dear Henrietta, it arrived safely 
at its resting-place, and is now lying open before me, 
as I am quietly sitting, this chill February morning, to 
inform you of its safe arrival. I find I was not mistaken 
in believing you too kind to be displeased at my remiss- 
ness ; and I now hope that through our continued inter- 
course neither will have cause to complain of the other's 
negligence. 

" For my own part, I am always willing to assign 
every reason but that of forgetfulness for a friend's 
silence. Knowing how often I am obliged to claim 
this indulgence for myself, and how often ill health 
prevents me from writing to those I love, I am the more 
ready to frame apologies for others ; indeed I think this 
spirit of charity (if so I may call it) is necessary to the 
happiness of correspondents, and as I am sure you pos- 
sess it, I trust we shall both glide quietly along without 
any of those little jars which so often interrupt the 
purest friendships. And now that my dissertation on 
letter-writing is at an end, I must proceed to inform you 
of what I fear will be a disappointment, as it breaks 
away all those sweet anticipations expressed in your 
affectionate letter. Father has concluded that we shall 
not return to Plattsburgh next spring, as he had once 
intended ; he fears the effects of the cold winds of Lake 
Champlain upon mother and myself, who are both deli- 
cate ; and as we have so many dear friends in and 
about the city, a nearer location would be pleasanter 



76 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

to US and to them. We now think seriously of return- 
ing to Ballston, that beautiful little village where we 
have already spent two delightful years ; and though iaji 
his case I must relinquish the idea of visiting my dear: 
' old liome' and my dear young friend, hope points to the) 
hour when you may become my guest, and where the ) 
charms of novelty will in some degree repay us for the j 
delightful associations and remembrances we had hoped I 
to enjoy. But I cannot help now and then casting a i 
backward glance upon the beautiful scenes you describe,, 
and wishing myself with you. A philosopher would I 
say, * Since you cannot enjoy what you desire, turn to > 
the pleasures you may possess, and seek in them conso- 
lation for what you have lost;' but I am no philosopher. 

" I will endeavour to answer your question about 
Mrs. Hemans. I have read several lives of this dis- 
tinguished poetess, by different authors, and in all of 
them find something new to admire in her character 
and venerate in her genius ! She was a woman of deep 
feeling, lively fancy, and acute sensibilities ; so acute, 
indeed, as to have formed her chief unhappiness through 
life. She mingles her own feelings with her poems so 
well, that in reading them you read her character. But 
there is one thing I have often remarked : the mind soon 
wearies in perusing many of her pieces at once. She 
expresses those sweet sentiments so often, and intro- 
duces the same stream of beautiful ideas so constantly, 
that they sometimes degenerate into monotony. I know 
of no higher treat than to read a few of her best pro- 
ductions, and comment upon and feel their beauties; 
but perusing her volume is to me like listening to a 
strain of sweet music repeated over and over again, 



BIOGRAPHY. 77 

until it becomes so familiar to the ear, that it loses the 
charm of variety. 

" Now, dear H., is not this presumption in me, to 
criticise so exquisite an author? But you desired my 
opinion, and I have given it to you without reserve. 

" You desire me to send you an original poem for 
yourself. Now, my dear Hetty, this is something I 
am not at present able to do for any of my friends, 
writing being supposed quite injurious to persons with 
weak lungs. And I have still another reason. You 
say the effect of conveying feelings from the heart and 
recording them upon paper, seems to deprive them of 
half their warmth and ardour! Now, my dear friend, 
would not the effect of forming them into verse seem to 
render them still less sincere ! Is not plain prose, as it 
slides rapidly from the pen, more apt to speak the feel- 
ings of the heart, than when an hour or two is spent in 
giving them rhyme and measure, and all the attributes 
of poetry ?"*****#* 

TO THE SAME. 

" New York, April 2d, 1837. 
" About an hour since, my dear Henrietta, I received 
your token of remembrance, and commence my answer 
with an act of obedience to your sovereign will ; but I 
fear you will repent when too late, and while nodding 
over the closely written sheet, and peering impatiently 
into each crowded corner, you will secretly wish you 
had allowed my pen to commence its operations at a 
more respectful distance from the top of the page. 
However, the request was your own : I obey like an 
obedient friend, and you must abide the consequences 



78 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of your rash demand. Should the first glance at nriy 
well-filled sheet be followed by a yawn^ or its last word 
be welcomed with a smile, you must blame your own 
imprudence in bringing down upon your luckless head 
the accumulated nothings of a scribbler like myself. It 
is indeed true that we shall not return to Plattsburgh ; 
and much as I long to revisit the home of my infancy, 
and the friends of my earliest remembrance, I shall be 
obliged to relinquish the pleasure in reality, though 
fancy, unshackled by earth, shall direct her pinions to 
the north, and linger, delighted, on the beautiful banks 
of the Champlain ! Melhinks I hear you exclaim, 
with impatience, ' Fancy ! what is it ? I long for some- 
thing more substantial.' So do I, ma chere, but since I 
cannot hope to behold my dear native village and its 
dear inhabitants with other eyes than those of fancy, I 
will e'er employ them to the best of my ability. You 
may be sure we do not prefer the confined and murky 
atmosphere of the city to the pure and health-giving 
breezes of the country ; far from it — we are already 
preparing to remove, as soon as the mild influence of 
spring has prevailed over the chilling blasts which we 
still hear whistling around us ; and gladly shall we- 
welcome the day that will release us from our bond- 
age. But there is some drawback to every pleasure — 
some bitter drop in almost every cup of enjoyment ; 
and we shall taste this most keenly when we bid fare- 
well to the delightful circle of friends who have cheered 
us during the solitude and confinement of this dreary 
winter. The New York air, so far from agreeing with 
us, has deprived us of every enjoyment beyond the 
boundaries of our own walls, and it will be hard to 
leave those friends who have taught us to forget the 



BIOGRAPHY. 7jj 

privations of ill health in the pleasure of their society. 
We have chosen Ballston for our temporary home, from 
the hope of seeing them oftener there than we could in 
a secluded tow^n, and because pure air, medicinal 
waters, and good society have all combined to render 
it a delightful country residence ; yet with all these 
advantages, it can never possess half the charms of my 
dear old home ! 

" That dear old home, where passM my childish years, 
When fond affection wiped my infant tears ! 
Where first I learn'd from whence my blessings came. 
And lisp'd in faltering tones, a mother''s name I 

" That dear old home, where memory fondly clings, 
Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 
Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray, 
And pass the hours in pleasing dreams away ! 

" Oh, shall I ne'er behold thy waves again, 
My native lake, my beautiful Champlain ? 
Shall I no more above thy ripples bend 
In sweet communion with my childhood's friend ? 

" Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave. 
The patriot's cradle and the warrior's grave ? 
Thy mountains, tinged with daylight's parting glow ? 
Thy islets, mirror'd in the stream below ? 

" Back ! back ! — thou present ! robed in shadows lie, 
And rise, thou past, before my raptured eye ! 
Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between. 
And memory's hand shall paint the glowing scene ! 

" Lo ! how the view beneath her pencil grows ! 
The flow'ret blooms, the winding streamlet flows ; 
With former friends I trace my footsteps o'er, 
And muse, delighted, on my own green shore ! 



80 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" Alas it fades — ^the fairy dream is past ! 
Dissolved the veil by sportive fancy cast. 
Oh why should thus our brightest dreams depart, 
And scenes illusive cheat the longing heart ? 

" Where'er through future life my steps may roam, 
I ne'er shall find a spot like thee, my home ; 
With all my joys the thought of thee shall blend, 
And join'd with thee^ shall rise my childhood's friend. 

"Mother is most truly alive to all these feelings. 
During our first year in New York, we were living a 
few miles from the city, at one of the loveliest situa- 
tions in the world ! I think I have seldom seen a 
sweeter spot ; but all its beauties could not divert her 
thoughts from our own dear home, and despite the 
superior advantages we there enjoyed, she wept to enjoy 
it again. But enough of this ; if I suffer my fancy to 
dwell longer upon these loved scenes, I shall scribble 
over my whole sheet, and, leaving out what I most wish 
to say, fill it with nothing but * Home, home, sweet, 
sweet home !' as the song goes. * * * * 

June, 1837. 

*' Now for the mighty theme upon which I scarcely 
dare to dwell : my visit to Plattsburgh ! Yes, my dear 
H., I do think, or rather I do hope, that such a time may 
come when I may spend at least a week with you. 1 
dare not hope for a longer time, for I know I shall be 
disappointed. About the middle of this month brother 
graduates, and will leave West Point for home. He 
intends to visit Plattsburgh, and it will take much to 
wean me from my favourite plan of accompanying 
him. However, all is uncertain — I must not think of it 
too much — but if I do come, it will be with the hope of 
gaining a still greater pleasure. We are now delight- 



BIOGRAPHY. 81 

fully situated. Can you not return with me, and make 
me a visit ? What joy is like the joy of anticipation 1 
What pleasure like those we look forward to, through a 
long lapse of time, and dwell upon as some bright land 
that we shall inhabit when the present shall have become 
the past ? I have heard it observed that it was foolish 
to anticipate — that it was only increasing the pangs of 
disappointment. Not so : do we not, in our most san- 
guine hopes, acknowledge to ourselves a fear, a doubt, 
an expectation of disappointment ? Shall we lose the 
enjoyment of the present, because evil may come in 
future ? No, no — if anticipation was not meant for a 
solace, an alleviation of the sorrows of life, would it 
have been so strongly implanted in our hearts by the 
great Director of all our passions ? No — it is too pre- 
cious ! I would give up half the reality of joy for the 
sweet anticipation. Stop — I have gone too far — for 
indeed I could not resign my visit to you, though I 
might hope and anticipate for years ! 

*' Just as I had written the above, father interrupted 
me with an invitation to ride. We have just returned 
from a long, delightful drive. Though Ballston cannot 
compare with Plattsburgh for its rich and varied 
scenery, still there are romantic woods and shady 
paths which cannot fail to delight the true lover of 
nature. *4£.#####* 

*' So you do have the blues, eh ? I had almost said I 
was glad of it; but that would be too cruel — I will only 
say, one does not like to be alone, or in any thing singu- 
lar, and I too, once in a while, receive a visit from these 
provoking imps — are they not? You should not have 
blamed Scott only, (excuse me,) but yourself, for select- 
ing such a book to chase away melancholy. 



82 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" You ask me if I remember those slory-telUng days ? 
Indeed I do, and nothing affords me more pleasure than 
the recollection of those happy hours ! If my memory 
could only retain the particulars of my last story, gladly 
would I resume and continue it when I meet you again. 
I will ease your heart of its fear for mine — your scold- 
ing did not break it. My dear H., it is not made of 
such brittle materials as to crack for a trifle. No, no ! 
It would be far more prudent to save it entire for some 
greater occasion, and then make the crash as loud as 
possible — don't you think so? Oh nonsensical non- 
sense ! Well, 

' The greatest and the wisest men 
Will fool a little now and then.' 

But I believe I will not add another word, lest my pen 
should slide off into some new absurdity." 

On the 1st of May, 1837, the family left new York 
for Ballston. They had scarce reached there when 
Mrs. Davidson had an attack of inflammatory rheu- 
matism, which confined her to her bed, and rendered 
her helpless as an infant. It was Margaret's turn now 
to play the nurse, which she did with the most tender 
assiduity. The paroxysms of her mother's complaint 
were at first really alarming, as may be seen by the 
following extract of a letter from Margaret to Miss 
Sedgwick, written a short time afterwards : 

*' We at first thought she would never revive. It was 
indeed a dreadful hour, my dear madam — a sad trial 
for poor father and myself, to watch, as we supposed, 
the last agonies of one so beloved as my dear mother ! 
But the cloud has passed by, and my heart, relieved 



BIOGRAPHY. 83 

from its burden, is filled, almost to overflowing, with 
gratitude and joy. After a few hours of dreadful sus- 
pense, reaction took place, and since then she has been 
slowly and steadily improving. In a few days, I hope, 
she will be able to ride, and breathe some of this delight- 
ful air, which cannot fail to invigorate and restore her. 
My own health has improved astonishingly since my 
coming here. I walk, and ride, and exercise as much 
as possible in the open air, and find it of great service 
to me. Oh how much I hope to see you here ! * 

* * * Do, if possible, try the Ballston air 
once more. It has been useful to you once, it might be 
still more so now. You will find warm hearts to v\^el- 
come you, and we will do all in our power to make 
your visit pleasant to you. The country does indeed 
look beautiful! The woods are teeming with wild 
flowers, and the air is full of melody. The soft, wild 
warbling of the birds is far more sweet to me than the 
most laboured performances of art ; they may weary by 
repetition, but what heart can resist the influence of a 
lovely day ushered in by the morning song of those 
sweet carollers ! and even to sleep, as it were, by their 
melodious evening strain. How I wish you could be 
here to enjoy it with me." 

The summer of 1837 was one of the happiest of her 
fleeting existence. For some time after the family 
removed to Ballston she was very much confined to 
the house by the illness of her mother, and the want of 
a proper female companion to accompany her abroad. 
At length, a Mr. and Mrs. H., estimable and intimate 
friends, of a highly intellectual character, came to the 
village. Their society was an invaluable acquisition to 
Margaret. In company with them she was enabled to 



84 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

enjoy the healthful recreations of the country; to ram- 
ble in the woods ; to take exercise on horseback, of 
which she was extremely fond, and to make excursions 
about the neighbourhood ; while they exerted a guardian 
care to prevent her, in her enthusiastic love for rural 
scenery, from exposing herself to any thing detrimental 
to her health and strength. She gave herself up, for a 
time, to these exhilarating exercises, abstaining from 
her usual propensity to overtask her intellect, for she 
had imbibed the idea that active habits, cheerful recrea- 
tions, and a holiday frame of mind would effectually 
re-establish her health. As usual, in her excited moods, 
she occasionally carried these really healthful practices 
to excess, and would often, says her mother, engage, 
with a palpitating heart, and a pulse beating at the rate 
of one hundred and thirty in a minute, in all the exer- 
cises usually prescribed to preserve health in those who 
are in full possession of the blessing. She was admo- 
nished of her danger by several attacks upon her lungs 
during the summer, but as they were of short duration, 
she still flattered herself that she was getting well. 
There seemed to be almost an infatuation in her case. 
The exhilaration of her spirits was at times so great as 
almost to overpower her. Often would she stand by 
the window admiring a glorious sunset, until she would 
be raised into a kind of ecstasy ; her eye wTjuld kindle; 
a crimson glow would mount into her cheek, and she 
would indulge in some of her reveries about the glories 
of heaven, and the spirits of her deceased sisters, partly 
uttering her fancies aloud, until turning and catching her 
mother's eye fixed painfully upon her, she would throw 
her arms round her neck, kiss away the tears, and sink 
exhausted on her bosom. The excitement over, she 



BIOGRAPHY. 85 

would resume her calmness, and converse on general 
topics. Among her writings are fragments hastily- 
scrawled down at this time, showing the vague aspira- 
tions of her spirit, and her vain attempts to grasp those 
shadowy images that sometimes flit across the poetic 
mind. 

Oh for a something more than this, 

To fill the void within my breast ; 
A sweet reality of bliss, 

A something bright, but unexpress'd. 

My spirit longs for something higher 
Than life's dull stream can e'er supply ; 

Something to feed this inward fire, 
This spark, which never more can die. 

I'd hold companionship with all 

Of pure, of noble, or divine ; 
With glowing heart adoring fall. 

And kneel at nature's sylvan shrine. 

My soul is like a broken lyre, 

Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone ; 

A note, half trembling on the wire — 
A heart that wants an echoing tone. 

When shall I find this shadowy bliss, 
This shapeless phantom of the mind ? 

This something words can ne'er express, 
So vague, so faint, so undefined ? 

Language ! thou never canst portray 

The fancies floating o'er my soul ! 
Thou ne'er canst chase the clouds away 

Which o'er my changing visions roll ! 



gg MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And again — 

Oh I have gazed on forms of light, 

Till life seem'd ebbing in a tear — 
Till in that fleeting space of sight 

Were merged tlie feelings of a year. 

And I have heard the voice of song, 
Till my full heart gush'd wild and free, 

And my rapt soul would float along 
As if on waves of melody. 

But while I glow'd at beauty's glance, 

I long'd to feel a deeper thrill : 
And while I heard that dying strain, 

I sigh'd for something sweeter still. 

I have been happy, and my soul 

Free from each sorrow, care, regret ; 
Yet even in these hours of bliss 

I long'd to find them happier yet. 

Oft o'er the darkness of my mind 

Some meteor thought has glanced at will ; 

'Twas bright — but ever have I sigh'd 
To find a fancy brighter still. 

Why are these restless, vain desires, 
Which always grasp at something more 

To feed the spirit's hidden fires, 

Which burn unseen — unnoticed soar ? 

Well might the heathen sage have known 
That earth must fail the soul to bind ; 

That life, and life's tame joys, alone, 
Could never chain the ethereal mind. 

The above, as we have before observed, are mere 
fragments, unfinished and uncorrected, and some of the 



BIOGRAPHY. 87 

verses have a vagueness incident to the mood of nnind 
in which they were conceived, and the haste with 
which they were penned ; but in these lofty, indefinite 
aspirations of a young, half-schooled, and inexperienced 
mind, we see the early and impatient flutterings of a 
poetical genius, which, if spared, might have soared to 
the highest regions. 

In a letter written to Miss Sedgwick during the 
autumn, she speaks of her health as having rapidly 
improved. "I am no longer afflicted by the cough, 
and mother feels it unnecessary now to speak to me as 
being ill; though my health is, and probably always 
will be, very delicate." — " And she really did appear 
better," observes her mother, " and even I, who had 
ever been nervously alive to every symptom of her 
disease, was deluded by those favourable appearances, 
and began to entertain a hope that she might yet 
recover, when another sudden attack of bleeding at the 
lungs convinced us of the fallacy of our hopes, and 
warned us to take every measure to ward off the 
severity of the climate in the coming winter. A con- 
sultation was held between her father and our favourite 
physician, and the result was that she was to keep 
within doors. This was indeed sad, but, after an 
evident struggle with her ovvn mind, she submitted, 
with her accustomed good sense, to the decree. All 
that affection could suggest, was done, to prevent the 
effects of this seclusion on her spirits." A cheerful 
room was allotted to her, commanding an agreeable 
prospect, and communicating, by folding doors, to a 
commodious parlour ; the temperature of the whole 
apartment was regulated by a thermometer. Hither 
her books, writing-table, drawing implements, and 



QQ MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

fancy work were transported. When once established 
in these winter quarters, she became contented and 
cheerful. " She read and wrote," says her mother, 
*' and amused herself with drawing and needle-work. 
After spending as much time as I dare permit in the 
more serious studies in which she was engaged, she 
would unbend her mind with one of Scott's delightful 
novels, or play with her kitten ; and at evening we 
were usually joined by our interesting friends, Mr. and 
Mrs. H. It is now a melancholy satisfaction to me to 
believe that she could not, in her state of health, be 
happier, or more pleasantly situated. She was always 
charmed with the conversation of Mr. H., and followed 
him through all the mazes of philosophy with the 
greatest delight. She read Cousin with a high zest, 
and produced an abstract from it which gave a con- 
vincing proof that she understood the principles there 
laid down ; after which she gave a complete analysis of 
the Introduction to the History of Philosophy, by the 
same author. Her mind must have been deeply en- 
grossed by these studies, yet it was not visible from her 
manner. During this short winter she accomplished 
what to many would have been the labour of years, 
yet there was no haste, no flurry ; she pursued quietly 
her round of occupations, always cheerful. The hours 
flew swiftly by ; not a moment lagged. I think she 
never spent a more happy winter than this, with all its 
varied employments." 

The following extract from a letter to one of her 
young friends, gives an idea of her course of reading 
during this winter ; and how, in her precocious mind, 
the playfulness of the child mingled with the thoughtful- 
ness of the woman. 



BIOGRAPHY. 89 

** You ask me what I am reading. Alas 1 book- 
worm as I am, it makes me draw a long breath to 
contemplate the books I have laid out for perusal. In 
the first place, I am reading Condillac's Ancient His- 
tory, in French, twenty-four volumes; Gibbon's Decline 
and Fall of the Roman Empire, in four large volumes. 
I have not quite finished Josephus. In my moments of 
recreation I am poring over Scott's bewitching novels, 
I wish we could give them some other name instead of 
novels, for they certainly should not bear the same title 
with the thousand and one productions of that class 
daily swarming from the press. Do you think they 
ought? So pure, so pathetic, so historical, and, above 
all, so true to human nature. How beautifully he 
mingles the sad with the grotesque, in such a manner 
that the opposite feelings they excite harmonize per- 
fectly with each other. His works can be read over 
and over again, and every time with a growing sense 
of their beauties. Do you read French ? If so, I wish 
we could read the same works together. It would be 
a great pleasure to me at least, and our mutual remarks 
might benefit each other. Supposing you will be pleased 
to hear of my amusements, however trifling, I will ven- 
ture to name one, at the risk of lowering any great 
opinion you may have formed of my wisdom! A pet 
kitten ! ! ! Yes, my dear Henrietta, a sweet little crea- 
ture, with a graceful shape, playful temper, white breast, 
and dear little innocent eyes, which completely belie the 
reputed disposition of a cat He is neither deceitful, 
ferocious, nor ungrateful, but is certainly the most 
rational being for an irrational one, I ever saw. He is 
now snugly lying in my lap, watching every movement 
of my pen with a quiet purr of contentment. Have 

7 



90 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

you such a pet ? I wish you had, that we both might 
play with them at the same time, sunset, for instance, 
and while so far distant, feel that we were enjoying 
ourselves in the selfsame way. You ask what I think 
of animal magnetism? My dear Hetty, I have not 
troubled my head about it. I hear of it from every 
quarter, and mentioned so often with contempt, that I 
have thought of it only as an absurdity. If I understand 
it rightly, the leading principle is the influence of one 
mind upon another; there is undoubtedly such an in- 
fluence, to a reasonable degree, but as to throwing one 
into a Tnagnetic sleep — presenting visions before their 
eyes of scenes passing afar off*, it seems almost too 
ridiculous ! Still it may be all true ! A hundred years 
since, what would have been our feelings to see what is 
now here so common, a steam engine^ breathing fire and 
smoke, gliding along with the rapidity of thought, and 
carrying at its Mack heels a train which a hundred men 
would fail to move. We know not but this apparent 
absurdity, this magnetism may be a great and myste- 
rious secret, which the course of time will reveal and 
adapt to important purposes. * * # * * 
What are you studying ? Do you play ? Do you draw ? 
Please tell me every thing. I wish I could form some 
picture of you to my mind's eye. It is so tormenting to 
correspond with a dear friend, and have no likeness of 
them in our fancy. I remember every thing as it used 
to be, but time makes great changes ! Now here comes 
my saucy kitten, and springs upon the table before me 
as if he had a perfect right thare. < What do you mean, 
little puss ] Come, sit for your portrait !' I hope, dear 
H., you will fully appreciate this painting, which I con- 
sider as my chef-d'oeuvre, and preserve it as a faithful like- 



BIOGRAPHY. 91 

ness of my inimitable cat. But do forgive me so much 
nonsense ! But I feel that to you I can rattle off any 
thing that comes uppermost. It is near night, and the 
sun is setting so beautifully after the long storm that I 
could not sit here much longer, even if I had a whole 
page to fill. How splendid the moon must look on the 
bright waters of the Champlain this night ! Good bye, 
good bye — love to all from all, and believe me, now as 
ever, 

" Your sincere friend, 

" Margaret." 

The following passages from her mother's memoran- 
dums, touch upon matters of more solemn interest, 
which occasionally occupied her young mind : 

" During the whole of the preceding summer her 
mind had dwelt much upon the subject of rehgion. 
Much of her time was devoted to serious reflection, self- 
examination, and prayer. But she evidently shunned 
all conversation upon the subject. It was a theme 
she had always conversed upon with pleasure until 
now. This not only surprised but pained me. I was a 
silent but close and anxious observer of the operations 
of her mind, and saw that, with all her apparent cheer- 
fulness, she was ill at ease ; perfect silence was however 
maintained on both sides until the winter commenced, 
and brought us more closely together. Then her young 
heart again reposed itself, in confiding love, upon the 
bosom that heretofore had shared its every thought, and 
the subject became one of daily discussion. I found her 
mind perplexed and her ideas confused by points of 
doctrine which she could neither understand nor recon- 
cile with her views of the justice and benevolence of 



92 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

God, as exhibited in the Scriptures. Her views of the 
divine character and attributes had ever been of that 
elevated cast, which, while they raised her mind above 
all grosser things, sublimated and purified her feelings 
and desires, and prepared her for that bright and holy 
communion without which she could enjoy nothing. 
Her faith was of that character * which casteth out 
fear.' Jt was sw^eet and soothing to depend upon Jesus 
for salvation. It was delightful to behold, in the all- 
imposing majesty of God, a kind and tender father, who 
pitied her infirmities, and on whose justice and benevo- 
lence she could rest for time and eternitv. She had, 
during the summer, heard much disputation on doc- 
trinal points, wdiich she had silently and carefully 
examined, and had been shocked at the position which 
many professing Christians had taken; she saw much 
inconsistency, much bitterness of spirit, on points which 
she had been taught to consider not essential to salva- 
tion ; she saw that the spirit of persecution and unchari- 
tableness which pervaded many classes of Christians, 
had almost totally destroyed that bond of brotherhood 
which ought firmly to unite the followers of the humble 
Saviour ; and she could not reconcile these feelings 
with her ideas of the Christian character. Her meek- 
ness and humility led her sometimes to doubt her own 
state. She felt that her religious duties were but too 
feebly performed, and that without divine assistance 
all her resolutions to be more faithful were vain. She 
often said, * Mamma, I am far from right. I resolve 
and re-resolve, and yet remain the same.' I had 
shunned every thing that savoured of controversy, 
knowing her enthusiasm and extreme sensibility on the 
subject of religion ; I dreaded the excitement it might 



BIOGRAPHY. 93 

create. But I now more fully explained, as well as I 
was able, the simple and divine truths of the Gospel, 
and held up to her view the beauty and benevolence of 
the Father's character, and the unbounded love which 
could have devised the atoning sacrifice ; and advised 
her at present to avoid controversial writings, and make 
a more thorough examination of the Scriptures, that she 
might found her principles upon the evidences to be 
deduced from that groundwork of our faith, unbiassed 
by the opinions and prejudices of any man. I repre- 
sented to her, that, young as she was, while in feeble 
health, researches into those knotty and disputed sub- 
jects would only confuse her mind ; that there was 
enough of plain practical religion to be gathered from 
the Bible ; and urged the importance of frequent and 
earnest prayer which, with God's blessing, would 
compose the agitation of her mind, which I considered 
as essential to her inward peace." 

On one occasion, while perusing Lockhart's Life of 
Scott with great interest, her mother ventured to sound 
her feelings upon the subject of literary fame, and 
asked her whether she had no ambition to have her 
name go down to posterity. She took her mother's 
hand with enthusiasm, kissed her cheek, and, retiring 
to the other room, in less than an hour returned with 
the following lines : 

TO DIE AND BE FORGOTTEN. 

A few short years will roll along-, 

With mingled joy and pain, 
Then shall I pass — a broken tone ! 

An echo of a strain ! 



94 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Then shall I fade away from life, 
Like cloud-tints from the sky, 

When the breeze sweeps their surface o'er, 
And they are lost for aye. 

The world will laugh, and weep, and sing-, 

As gaily as before. 
But cold and silent I shall be — 

As I have been no more. 

The haunts I loved, the flowers I nursed 
Will bloom as sweetly still. 

But other hearts and other hands 
My vacant place shall fill. 

And even mighty love must fail 
To bind my memory here — 

Like fragrance round the faded rose. 
Twill perish with the year. 

The soul may look with fervent hope. 

To worlds of future bliss ; 
But oh how saddening to the heart 

To be forgot in this I 

How many a noble mind hath shrunk 
From death without a name ; 

Hath look'd beyond his shadowy realm. 
And lived and died for fame. 

Could we not view the darksome grave 

With calmer, steadier eye, 
If conscious that a world's regret 

Would seek us where we lie ? 

Faith points, with mild confiding glance. 

To realms of bliss above. 
Where peace, and joy, and justice reign, 

And never-dying love ; 



BIOGRAPHY. 95 



But still our earthly feelings cling 
Around this bounded spot ; — 

There is a something burns within 
Which will not be forgot 

It cares not for a gorgeous hearse. 
For waving torch and plume ; 

For pealing hymn, funereal verse. 
Or richly sculptured tomb ; 

But it would live undimm'd and fresh, 
When flickering life departs ; 

Would find a pure and honour'd grave, 
EmbalmM in kindred hearts. 

Who would not brave a life of tears 
To win an honour'd name ? 

One sweet and heart-awakening tone 
From the silver trump of fame ? 

To be, when countless years have past, 
The good man's glowing theme ? 

To be — but I — what right have I 
To this bewildering dream ? 

Oh, it is vain, and worse than vain. 
To dwell on thoughts like these ; 

/, a frail child, whose feeble frame 
Already knows disease I 

Who, ere another spring may dawn. 

Another summer bloom. 
May, like the flowers of autumn, lie 

A tenant of the tomb. 

Away, away, presumptuous thought 

I will not dwell on thee ! 
For what, alas ! am I to fame. 

And what is fame to me ? 



96 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Let all these wild and longing- thoughts. 

With the dying year expire, 
And I will nurse within my breast 

A purer, holier fire I 

Yes, I will seek my mind to win 

From all these dreams of strife. 
And toil to write my name within 

The glorious book of life. 

Then shall old time, who, rolling on. 

Impels me towards the tomb, 
Prepare for me a glorious crown. 

Through endless years to bloom. 

December, 1837. 

The confinement to the house, in a graduated tem- 
perature, the round of cheerful occupations, and the 
unremitting care taken of her, produced a visible melio- 
ration of her symptoms. Her cough gradually subsided, 
the morbid irritability of her system, producing often an 
unnatural flow of spirits, was quieted ; as usual, she 
looked forward to spring as the genial and delightful 
season that was to restore her to perfect health and 
freedom. 

Christmas was approaching, which had ever been a 
time of social enjoyment in the family ; as it drew near, 
however, the remembrance of those lost from the fire- 
side circle was painfully felt by Mrs. Davidson. Ma^r- 
garet saw the gloom on her mother's brow, and kissing 
her, exclaimed, " Dear mother, do not let us waste our 
present happiness in useless repining. You see I am 
well, and you are more comfortable, and dear father is 
in good health and spirits. Let us enjoy the present 



BIOGRAPHY. 97 

hour, and banish vain regrets !" Having given this 
wholesome advice, she tripped off with a hght step to 
prepare Christmas presents for the servants, which were 
to be distributed by St. Nicholas or Santa Claus, in the 
old traditional way. Every animated being, rational or 
irrational, must share her liberality on that day of fes- 
tivity and joy. Her Jenny, a Httle bay pony on which 
she had taken many heahhful and delightful rides, must 
have a gayer blanket, and an extra allowance of oats. 
" On Christmas morning," says her mother, " she woke 
with the first sound of the old house-clock striking the 
hour of five, and twining her arms around my neck, (for 
during this winter, she shared my bed,) and kissing me 
again and again exclaimed — 

* Wake, mother, wake to youthful glee, 
The golden sun is dawning ;' 

then slipping a piece of paper into my hand, she sprang 
out of bed, and danced about the carpet, her kitten in 
her arms, with all the sportive glee of childhood. When 
I gazed upon her young face, so bright, so animated, 
and beautiful, beaming with innocence and love, and 
thought that perhaps this was the last anniversary of 
her Saviour's birth she might spend on earth, I could 
not suppress my emotions : I caught her to my bosom 
in an agony of tenderness, while she, all unconscious of 
the nature of my feelings, returned my caresses with 
playful fondness." The following verses were con- 
tained in the above-mentioned paper : 

TO MY MOTHER AT CHRISTMAS. 

Wake, mother, wake to hope and glee, 
The golden sun is dawning ! 



98 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 
This happy Christmas morning ! 

Each eye is bright with pleasure's glow, 
Each lip is laughing merrily ; 

A smile hath pass'd o'er winter's brow, 
And the very snow looks cheerily. 

Hark to the voice of the awaken'd day, 
To the sleigh-bells gaily ringing. 

While a thousand, thousand happy hearts 
Their Christmas lays are singing. 

'Tis a joyous hour of mirth and love, 
And my heart is overflowing ! 

Come, let us raise our thoughts above, 
While pure, and fresh, and glowing. 

'Tis the happiest day of the rolling year. 
But it comes in a robe of mourning. 

Nor light, nor life, nor bloom is here 
Its icy shroud adorning. 

It comes when all around is dark, 

'Tis meet it so should be. 
For its joy is the joy of the happy heart, 

The spirit's jubilee. 

It does not need the bloom of spring. 
Or summer's light and gladness, 

For love has spread her beaming wing. 
O'er winter's brow of sadness. 

'Twas thus he came, beneath a cloud 
His spirit's light concealing. 

No crown of earth, no kingly robe 
His heavenly power revealing. 

His soul was pure, his mission love, 
His aim a world's redeeming ; 

To raise the darken'd soul above 
Its wild and sinful dreaming. 



BIOGRAPHY. 99 

With all his Father's power and love, 

The cords of guilt to sever ; 
To ope a sacred fount of light, 

Which flows, shall flow for ever. 

Then we shall hail the glorious day, 

The spirit's new creation. 
And pour our grateful feelings forth, 

A pure and warm libation. 

Wake, mother, wake to chasten'd joy, 

The golden sun is dawning ! 
Wake, mother, wake, and hail with me 

This happy Christmas morning. 

" The last day of the year 1837 arrived. * Mamma,' 
said she, * will you sit up with me to-night until after 
twelve V I looked inquiringly. She replied, * I wish 
to bid farewell to the present, and to welcome the 
coming year.' After the family retired, and we had 
seated ourselves by a cheerful fire to spend the hours 
which would intervene until the year 1838 should dawn 
upon us, she was serious, but not sad, and as if she had 
nothing more than usual upon her mind, took some light 
sewing in her hand, and so interested me by her conver- 
sation, that I scarcely noticed the flight of time. At 
half past eleven she handed me a book, pointing to some 
interesting article to amuse me, then took her seat at 
the writing-table, and composed the piece on the depar- 
ture of the old year 1837, and the commencement of 
the new one 1838. When she had finished the Fare- 
well, except the last verse, it wanted a few minutes of 
twelve. She rested her arms in silence upon the table, 
apparently absorbed in meditation. The clock struck — 
a sort of deep thought passed over her expressive face — 
she remained solemn and silent until the last tone had 
ceased to vibrate, when she again resumed her pen and 



100 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

wrote, ' The bell ! it hath ceased.' When the clock struck, 
I arose from my seat and stood leaning over the back 
of her chair, with a mind deeply solemnized by a scene 
so new and interesting. The words flowed rapidly from 
her pen, whhout haste or confusion, and at one o'clock 
we were quietly in bed." 

We again subjoin the poem alluded to, trusting that 
these effusions, which are so intimately connected with 
her personal history, will be read with greater interest, 
when given in conjunction with the scenes and circum- 
stances which prompted them. 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE YEAR 1837, AND THE 
COMMENCEMENT OF 1838. 

Hark to the house-clock's measured chime, 

As it cries to the startled ear, 
" A dirge for the soul of departing time, 

A requiem for the year." 

Thou art passing away to the mighty past, 

Where thy countless brethren sleep, 
Till the great Archangel's trumpet-blast, 

Shall waken land and deep. 

Oh the lovely and beautiful things that lie 

On thy cold and motionless breast ! 
Oh the tears, the rejoicings, the smiles, the sighs, 

Departing with thee to their rest. 

Thou wert usher'd to life amid darkness and gloom. 

But the icy cloud pass'd away. 
And spring, in her verdure, and freshness, and bloom, 

Touch'd with glory thy mantle of gray. 

The flow'rets burst forth in their beauty — the trees 

In their exquisite robes were array'd. 
But thou glidest along, and the flower and the leaf, 

At the sound of thy footsteps, decay'd. 



BIOGRAPHY. 

And fairer young' blossoms were blooming' alone, 
And they died at the glance of thine eye, 

But a life was within which should rise o'er thine own, 
And a spirit thou could'st not destroy. 

Thou hast folded thy pinions, thy race is complete. 

And fulfill'd the Creator's behest. 
Then, adieu to thee, year of our sorrows and joys, 

And peaceful and long be thy rest. 

Farewell ! for thy truth-written record is full, 
And the page weeps, for sorrow and crime, 

Farewell ! for the leaf hath shut down on the past. 
And conceal'd the dark annals of time. 



101 



The bell ! it hath ceased with its iron tong'ue 

To ring on the startled ear. 
The dirge o'er the grave of the lost one is rung — 

All hail to the new-born year ! 

All hail to the new-born year ! 

To the child of hope and fear ! 

He comes on his car of state. 

And weaves our web of fate. 
And he opens his robe to receive us all, 
And we live or die, and we rise or fall, 

In the arms of the new-born year ! 

Hope ! spread thy soaring wings ! 

Look forth on the boundless sea. 
And trace thy bright and beautiful things, 

On the veil of the great To Be. 

Build palaces broad as the sky. 

And store them with treasures of light, 

Let exquisite visions bewilder the eye. 
And illumine the darkness of night. 

We are gliding fast from the buried year. 

And the present is no more. 
But hope, we will borrow thy sparkling gear, 

And shroud the future o'er. 



102 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Our tears and sighs shall sleep 

In the grave of the silent past • 
We will raise up flowers — nor weep 

That the air hues may not last. 

We will dream our dreams of joy, 

Ah, fear ! why darken the scene ? 
Why sprinkle that ominous tear, 

My beautiful visions between ? 

Hath not sorrow swifl wings of her- own, 

That thou must assist in her flight ? 
Is not daylight too rapidly gone, 

That thou must urge onward the night ? 

Ah ! leave me to fancy, to hope, 

For grief will too quickly be here ; 
Ah ! leave me to shadow forth figures of light, 

In the mystical robe of the year. 

'Tis true, they may never assume 

The substance of pleasure, — the real,— 
But believe me, our purest of joy 

Consists in the vague — the ideal. 

Then away to the darksome cave. 

With thy sisters, the sigh and the tear, 
We will drink, in the crystal wave, 

The health of the new-born year. 

" She had been for some time thinking of a subject 
for a poem, and the next day, which was the first of 
January, came to me in great perplexity and asked 
my advice. I had long desired that she would direct 
her attention to the beautiful and sublime narratives 
of the Old Testament, and now proposed that she 
should take the Bible and examine it with that view. 
After an hour or two spent in research she remarked 
that there were many, very many subjects of deep 



^\ 



BIOGRAPHY. 



103 



and thrilling interest; but if she now should make a 
failure, her discouragement would be such as to pre- 
vent her from ever making another attempt. ' I am 
now,' she said, ' trying my wings, I will take a lighter 
subject at first: if I succeed, I will then write a more 
perfect poem, founded upon Sacred History/ " 

She accordingly took as a theme a prose tale, in a 
current work of the day, and wrote several pages with 
a flowing pen, but soon threw them by dissatisfied. 
It was irksome to employ the thoughts and fancies of 
another and to have to adopt her own to the plan of the 
author. She wanted something original. " After some 
farther effort," says Mrs. Davidson, " she came to me 
out of spirits and in tears. ' Mother,' said she, ' I must 
give it up after all.' I asked the reason, and then 
remarked that as she had already so many labours upon 
her hands, and was still feeble, it might be the wisest 
course. ' Oh mother,' said she, * that is not the reason ; 
my head and my heart are full: poetic images are 
crowding upon my brain, but every subject has been 
monopolized : " there is nothing new under the sun." ' 
I said * My daughter, that others have written upon a 
subject is not an objection. The most eminent writers 
do not always choose what is new.' 'Mother, dear 
mother, what can I say upon a theme which has been 
touched by the greatest men of this or some other age ? 
I, a mere child ; it is absurd in me to think of it.' She 
dropped beside me on the sofa, laid her head upon 
my bosom, and sobbed violently. I wiped the tears 
from her face, while my own were fast flowing, and 
strove to soothe the tumult of her mind. * * * When we 
were both more calm, I said, ' Margaret, I had hoped 
that during this winter you would not have com- 



104 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON, 

menced or applied yourself to any important work ; 
but if you feel in that wavj I will not urge you to 
resign an occupation which gives you such exquisite 
enjoyment.' " 

Mrs. Davidson then went on to show to her that, 
notwithstanding the number of poets that had written, 
the themes and materials for poetry are inexhaustible. 
By degrees Margaret became composed, took up a 
book and read. The words of her mother dwelt in 
her mind. In a few days she brought her mother the 
introduction to a projected poem to be called Lenore. 
Mrs. Davidson was touched at finding the remarks 
she had made for the purpose of soothing the agitation 
of her daughter had served to kindle her imagination, 
and were poured forth with eloquence in those verses. 
The excitement continued, and the poem of Lenore 
was completed, corrected, and copied into her book by 
the first of March ; having written her plan in prose 
at full length, containing about the same number of 
lines as the poem. " During its progress," says Mrs. 
Davidson, " when fatigued with writing, she would 
take her kitten and recline upon her sofa, asking me 
to relate to her some of the scenes of the last war. 
Accordingly, I would while away our solitude by 
repeating anecdotes of that period ; and before Lenore 
was completed she had advanced several pages in a 
prose tale, the scene of which was laid upon Lake 
Champlain during the last war. She at the same 
time executed faces and figures in crayon which would 
not have disgraced the pencil of an artist. Her labours 
were truly immense. Yet a stranger coming occa- 
sionally to the house would hardly observe that she had 
any pressing avocations." 



BIOGRAPHY. 105 

The following are extracts from a rough draught of 
a letter written to Miss Sedgwick about this time. 

" My dear Madam, 

" I wish I could express to you my pleasure on re- 
ceiving your kind and affectionate letter. So far from 
considering myself neglected by your silence, I felt it 
a great privilege to be permitted to write to you, and 
knew that I ought not to expect a regular answer 
to every letter, even while I was longing, day after 
day, to receive this gratifying token of remembrance. 
Unless you had witnessed, I fear you would hardly 
believe my extravagant delight on reading the dear 
little folded paper, so expressive of your kind recollec- 
tion. I positively danced for joy ; bestowed a thousand 
caresses upon every body and every thing I loved, 
dreamed of you all night, and arose next morning (with 
a heart full,) to answer your letter, but was prevented 
by indisposition, and have not been able until now to 
perform a most pleasing duty by acknowledging its 
receipt. My health during the past winter has been 
much better than we had anticipated. It is true I have 
been with dear mother, entirely confined to the house, 
but being able to read, write and perform all my usual 
employments, I feel that I have much more reason 
to be thankful for the blessings continued to me, than 
to repine because a few have been denied. But spring 
is now here in name, if not in reality, and I can assure 
you my heart bounds at the thought of once more 
escaping from my confinement, and breathing the pure 
air of Heaven, without fearing a blight or consump- 
tion in ev^ery breeze. Spring ! What pleasure docs that 
magic syllable convey to the heart of an invalid, laden 

8 



106 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

with sweet promises, and bringing before his mind 
visions of liberty, which those who are always free 
cannot enjoy. Thus do I dream of summer, I may 
never see, and make myself happy for hours in antici- 
pating pleasures I may never share. It is an idle em- 
ployment, and little calculated to sweeten disappoint- 
ment. But it has opened to me many sources of de- 
light otherwise unknown; and when out of humour with 
the present, I have only to send fancy flower-gather- 
ing in the future, and I find myself fully repaid. Dear 
mother's health has also been much better than we had 
feared, and her ill turns less frequent and severe. She 
sits up most of the day, walks around the lower part 
of the house, and enjoys her book and her pen as much 
as ever. ****%* You speak of your intercourse 
with Mrs. Jameson. It must indeed be an exquisite 
pleasure to be intimately associated with a mind like 
hers. I have never seen any thing but extracts from 
her writings but must obtain and read them. I sup- 
pose the world is anxiously looking for her next volume. 
* # * We have been reading Lockhart's Life of 
Scott. Is it not a deeply interesting work 1 In what 
a beautiful light it represents the character of that great 
and good man. No one can read his life or his works 
without loving and venerating him. As to ' the waters 
of Helicon' we have but a few niggardly streams in this, 
our matter-of-fact village ; and father in his medical 
capacity has forbidden my partaking of them as freely 
as I could wish. But no matter, they have been frozen 
up, and will flow in * streams more salubrious' beneath 
the milder sky of spring." 

In all her letters we find a solicitude about her 



BIOGRAPHY. ] 07 

mother's health, rather than about her own, and indeed 
it was difficult to say which was most precarious. 

The following extract from a poem wTitten about this 
time to " Her Mother on her fiftieth Birthday" presents 
a beautiful portrait, and does honour to the filial hand 
that drew it. 

Yes, mother, fifty years have fled 
With rapid footsteps o'er thy head ; 
Have past with all their motley train, 
And left thee on thy couch of pain ! 
How many smiles and sighs and tears, 
How many hopes and doubts and fears 
Have vanish'd with that lapse of years. 

Oh that we all could look like thee, 
Back on that dark and tideless sea, 
And 'mid its varied records find 
A heart at ease with all mankind, 
A firm and self-approving mind. 
Grief that had broken hearts less fine 
Hath only served to strengthen thine — 

Time that doth chill the fancy's play 
Hath kindled thine witJi purer ray : 
And stern disease, whose icy dart 
Hath power to chill the breaking heart. 
Hath left thine warm with love and truth 
As in the halcyon days of youth. 

The following letter was written on the 26th of 
March, to a female cousin resident in New York. 

" Dear Kate : This day I am fifteen, and you can, you 
will readily pardon and account for the absurd flights of 
my pen, by supposing that my tutelary spirits, nonsense 
and folly, have assembled around the being of their 
creation, and claimed the day as exclusively their own ; 
then I pray you to lay to their account all that I have 



108 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

already scribbled, and believe that, uninfluenced by ihese 
grinning deities, I can think and feel, and love, as I love 
you with all warmth and sincerity of heart. Do you 
remember how we used to look forward to sweet fifteen 
as the pinnacle of human happiness, the golden age of 
existence 1 You have but lately passed that milestone 
in the highway of life ; I have just reached it, but I find 
myself no better satisfied to stand still than before, and 
look forward to the continuance of my journey with the 
same ardent longing I felt at fourteen. 

*' Ah, Kate, here we are, two young travellers starting 
forth upon our long pilgrimage, and knowing not whither 
it may conduct us ! You some months my superior in 
age, and many years in acquaintance with society, in 
external attractions, and all those accomplishments 
necessary to form an elegant woman. /, knowing 
nothing of life but from books, and a small circle of 
friends, who love me as I love them ; looking upon the 
past as a faded dream, which I shall have time enough 
to study and expound when old age and sorrow come 
on ; upon the present as a nursling, a preparative for the 
future ; and upon that future, as what ? a mighty whirl- 
pool, of hopes and fears, of bright anticipations and 
bitter disappointments, into which I shall soon plunge, 
and find there, in common with the rest of the world, 
my happiness or misery." * * # 

The following to a young friend, was also written on 
the 26th of March. 

My Dear H. : You must know that winter has 
come, and gone, and neither mother nor myself have 
felt a single breeze which could not force its way 
through the thick walls of our little dwelling. Do 



BIOGRAPHY. 109 

you not think I am looking gladly forward to April 
and May, as the lovely sisters who are to unlock the 
doors of our prison house, and give us once more to 
the free enjoyment of nature, without fearing a blight 
or a consumption in every breath? And now for 
another, and even more delightful anticipation — your 
visit! Are you indeed coming? And when are you 
coming? Do answer the first that I may for once have 
the pleasure of framing delightful visions without find- 
ing them dashed to the ground by the iron hand of 
reality, and the last, that I may not expect you too 
soon, and thus subject myself to all the bitterness of 
" hope deferred." Come, for I have so much to say to 
you, that I cannot possibly contain it until summer ; 
and come quickly, unless you are willing to account 
for my wasted time as well as your own, for I shall 
do little else but dream of you and your visit until the 
time of your arrival. You cannot imagine how those 
few words in your little good for nothing letter have 
completely upset my wonted gravity. Do not disap- 
point me. It is true, mother and I are both feeble 
and unable to go out with you and show you the 
lions of our httle village, but if warm welcomes can 
atone for the want of ceremony, you shall have them 
in abundance, but it seems to me that I shall want to 
pin you dow^n in a chair and do nothing but look at 
you from morning till night. As to coming to Platts- 
burgh, I think if we cannot do so in the spring, (which 
is doubtful) we certainly shall in the course of the 
summer. Brother M. wrote to me yesterday, saying 
that he would spend the month of August in the 
country, and if nothing occurred to prevent, we would 
take our delightful trip by the way of Lake George. 
Oh it will be so pleasant ! But my anticipations are 



110 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

now all bent upon a nearer object. Do not allow a 
slight impediment to destroy them. We expect in 
May to move to Saratoga. We shall then have a 
more convenient house, better society, and the benefit 
of a school in which I can practise music and draw- 
ing, without being obliged to attend regularly. We 
shall then be a few miles nearer to you, and at present 
even that seems something desirable to me. I have read 
and own three volumes of Scott's life, and was much 
disappointed to find that it was not finished in these 
three, but concluded the remainder had not yet come 
out. Are the five volumes all ? it is indeed a deeply 
interesting work. I am very fond of biography, for 
surely there can be nothing more delightful or instructive 
than to trace in the infancy and youth of every noble 
mind the germs of its future greatness. Have you read 
a work called Letters from Palmyra, by Mr. Ware of 
New York ? I have not yet seen it, but intend to do so 
soon. It is written in the character of a citizen of Rome 
at that early period, and it is said to be a lively picture 
of the manners and customs of the imperial city, and 
still more of the magnificence of Palmyra, and its 
splendid queen Zenobia. It also contains a beautiful 
story. I have lately been reperusing many of Scott's 
novels, and intend to finish them. Was ever any thing 
half so fascinating? Oh how I long to have you here 
and tell you all these little things in person. Do write 
to me immediately, and tell me when we may expect 
you ; I shall open your next with a beating heart. Do 
excuse all the blunders and scrawls of this hasty letter. 
You must receive it as a proof of friendship, for to a 
stranger, or one who I thought would look upon it with 
a cold and critical eye, I certainly should not send it. I 



BIOGRAPHY. Ill 

believe you and I have entered into a tacit agreement 
to forgive any little mistakes, which the other may 
chance to commit. Croyez moi ma chere amie votre 

Marguerite. 

The spirits of this most sensitive little being became 
more and more excited with the opening of spring. 
'' She watched," says her mother, " the putting forth of 
the tender grass and the young blossoms as the period 
which was to liberate her from captivity. She was 
pleased with every body and every thing. She loved 
every thing in nature, both animate and inanimate, with 
a warmth of affection which displayed the benevo- 
lence of her own heart. She felt that she was well, 
and oh! the bright dreams and imaginings, the cloudless 
future presented to her ardent m.ind — all was sunny and 
gay." 

The following letter is highly expressive of the state 
of her feelings at that period. 

*' A few days since, my dearest cousin, I received your 
affectionate letter, and if my heart smote me at the sight 
of the well-known superscription, you may imagine how 
unmercifully it thumped on reading a letter so full of 
affection, and so entirely devoid of reproach for my un- 
kindly negligence. I can assure you, my dear coz, you 
could have no better way of striking home to my heart 
the conviction of my error; and I resolved that hour, 
that moment, to lay my confessions at your feet, and 
sue for forgiveness : I knew you were too gentle to re- 
fuse. But alas ! for human resolves ! We were that 
afternoon expecting brother M. Dear brother ! And 
how could I collect my floating thoughts and curl my- 
self up into a corner with pen, ink and paper before 



112 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

me, when my heart was flying away over the sandhills 
of this unromantic region to meet and embrace and 
welcome home the wanderer. If it can interest you, 
picture to yourself the little scene : Mother and I 
breathless with expectation, gazing from the window, 
in mute suspense, and listening to the * 'phiz, phiz,^ of 
the great steam engine. Then when we caught a 
rapid glance of his trim little figure, how we bounded 
away over chairs, sofas, and kittens, to bestow in reality 
the greeting fancy had so often given him. Oh ! what 
is so delightful as to w^elcome a friend ! Well, three 
days have passed like a dream, and he is gone again. 
I am seated at my little table by the fire. Mother is 
sewing beside me. Puss is slumbering on the hearth, 
and nothing external remains to convince us of the 
truth of that bright sunbeam which had suddenly broken 
upon our quiet retreat, and departed like a vision as sud- 
denly. When shall we have the pleasure of w^elcoming 
you thus, my beloved cousin ? Your flying call of last 
summer was but an aggravation. Oh ! may all good 
angels w^atch over you and all you love, shake the 
dew of health from their balmy wings upon your 
smiling home, and waft you hither, cheerful and happy, 
to sojourn awhile with the friends who love you 
so dearly ! All hail to spring, the bright, the bloom- 
ing, the renovating spring ! Oh ! I am so happy 
— I feel a lightness at my heart, and a vigour in my 
frame that I have rarely felt. If I speak, my voice 
forms itself into a laugh. If I look forward, every thing 
seems bright before me. If I look back, memory calls 
up what is pleasant, and my greatest desire is that my 
pen could fling a ray of sunshine over this scribbled 
page, and infuse into your heart some of the cheerful- 
ness of my own. I have been confined to the house 



BIOGRAPHY. 113 

all winter, as it was thought the best and only way of 
restoring my health. Now my symptoms are all better, 
and I am looking forward to next month and its blue 
skies with the most childish impatience. By the way, 
I am not to be called a child any more; for yesterday 
I vidiS fifteen, what say you to that? I feel quite like an 
old woman, and think of putting on caps and spectacles 
next month." 

It was during the same exuberance of happy feeling, 
with the delusive idea of confirmed health and the anti- 
cipation of bright enjoyments, that she broke forth like 
a bird into the following strain of melody. 

Oh, my bosom is throbbing with joy, 

With a rapture too full to express ; 
From within and without I am blest, 

And the world, like myself, I would bless. 

All nature looks fair to my eye, 

From beneath and around and above, 
Hope smiles in the clear azure sky, 

And the broad earth is glowing with love. 

I stand on the threshold of life, 

On the shore of its wide-rolling sea, 
I have heard of its storms and its strife, 

But all things are tranquil to me. 

There's a veil o'er the future — 'tis bright 

As the wing of a spirit of air, 
And each form of enchantment and light 

Is trembling in Iris hues there. 

I turn to the world of affection. 

And warm, glowing treasures are mine ; 

To the past, and my fond recollection 
Gathers roses from memory's shrine. 



114 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But oh, there's a fountain of joy 
More rich than a king-dom beside ; 

It is holy — death cannot destroy 
The flow of its heavenly tide. 

'Tis the love that is gushing within — 

It would bathe the whole world in its light ; 

The cold stream of time shall not quench, 
The dark frown of wo shall not blight. 

These visions of pleasure may vanish, 
These bright dreams of youth disappear, 

Disappointment each air hue may banish, 
And drown each frail joy in a tear. 

I may plunge in the billows of life, 
I may taste of its dark cup of wo, 

I may weep, and the sad drops of grief 
May blend with the waves as they flow. 

I may dream, till reality's shadow 
O'er the light form of fancy is cast; 

I may hope, until hope, too, despairing 
Has crept — to the grave of the past. 

But though the wild waters surround me. 
Misfortune, temptation, and sin, 

Though fear be about and beyond me, 
And sorrow's dark shadow within ; 

Though age, with an icy-cold finger. 
May stamp his pale seal on my brow — 

Still, still in my bosom shall linger 
The glow that is warming it now. 

Youth will vanish, and pleasure, gay charmer, 
May depart on the wings of to-day. 

But that spot in my heart shall grow warmer, 
As year after year rolls away. 



BIOGRAPHY. 115 

" While her spirits were thus light and gay," says 
Mrs. Davidson, " from the prospect of returning health, 
my more mature judgment told me that those appear- 
ances might be deceptive — that even now the destroyer 
might be making sure his work of destruction ; but she 
really seemed better, the cough had subsided, her step 
was buoyant, her face glowed wdth animation, her eye 
was bright, and love, boundless, universal love, seemed 
to fill her young heart. Every symptom of her disease 
assumed a more favourable cast. Oh how my heart 
swelled with the mingled emotions of hope, doubt, and 
gratitude. Our hopes of her ultimate recovery seemed 
to be founded upon reason, yet her father still doubted 
the propriety of our return to Lake Champlain ; and as 
Saratoga held out many more advantages than Ballston 
as a temporary residence, he decided to spend the ensu- 
ing year or two there; and then we might perhaps, 
without much risk, return to our much-loved and long- 
deserted home on the banks of the Saranac. Accord- 
ingly a house was taken and every preparation made 
for our removal to Saratoga on the first of May. Mar- 
garet was pleased with the arrangement." 

The following playful extract of a letter to her brother 
in New York, exhibits her feelings on the prospect of 
their change of residence. 

" I now most humbly avail myself of your most 
gracious permission to scribble you a few lines in token 
of my everlasting love. * This is to inform j^ou I am 
very well, hoping these few lines will find you in pos- 
session of the same blessing' — notwithstanding the blue 
streaks that flitted over your pathway a few days after 
you left us. Perhaps it was occasioned by remorse, at 
the cruelty of your parting speech ; perhaps it was the 



116 MISS MARGARET DA VIDSOx^. 

reflection of a bright blue eye, upon the deep waters of 
your soul; but let the cause be what it may, ' black spirits 
or white, blue spirits or gray,' I hope the effect has 
entirely disappeared, and you are no longer tinged with 
its most doleful shadow. A blue sky, a blue eye, or the 
blue dye of the violet, are all undeniably beautiful, but 
this tint when transferred from the works of nature to 
the brow of man, or the stockings of woman, becomes 
a thing to ridicule or weep at. May your spirits hence- 
forth, my dear brother, be preserved from this ill-omened 
influence, and may your feet and ankles never be graced 
with garments of a hue so repulsive. Oh, brother, we 
are all in the heat of moving ; we, I say — you will 
account for the use of that personal pronoun on the 
authority of the old proverb, ' What a dust we flies 
raise,' for, to be frank with you, I have little or nothing 
to do with it, but poor mother is over head and ears in 
boxes, bedclothes, carpets, straw, and discussions. Our 
hall is already filled with the fruits of her labours and 
perseverance, in the shape of certain blue chests, carpet 
cases, trunks, boxes, &c. all ready for a move. Dear 
mother is head, hands, and feet for the whole machine ; 
our two helps being nothing but cranks, which turn 
when you touch them, and cease their rotary move- 
ment when the force is withdrawn. Heigho ! We 

miss our good C , with her quick invention and 

helpful hand. * * * * # Oh, my dear brother, I am 
anticipating so much pleasure next summer, I hope it 
will not all prove a dream. It will be so delightful 

when you come up in August and bring cousin K 

with you ; tell her I am calculating upon this pleasure 
with all my powers of fore-enjoyment — tell her also, 
that I am waiting most impatiently for that annihilating 



BIOGRAPHY. 11^ 

letter of hers, and if it does not come soon, I shall send 
her another cannonade, ere she has recovered the stun- 
ning effects of the first. Oh dear ! I have written a 
most disunderstandable letter, and now you must ex- 
cuse me, as I have declared war against M , and 

after mending my pen, must collect all my scattered 
ideas into a fleet, and launch them for a combat upon a 
whole sea of ink." 

" The exuberance of her spirits," says her mother, 
"as the spring advanced, and she was enabled once 
more to lake exercise in the open air, displayed itself 
in every thing. Her heart was overflowing with thank- 
fulness and love. Every fine day in the latter part of 
April, she either rode on horseback or drove out in a 
carriage. All nature looked lovely to her, not a tree 
or shrub but conveyed some poetical image or moral 
lesson to her mind. The moment, however, that she 
began to take daily exercise in the open air, I again 
heard with agony the prophetic cough. I felt that all 
was over ! She thought that she had taken cold, and 
our friends were of the same opinion. * It was a slight 
cold which would vanish beneath the mild influence of 
spring.' I, however, feared that her father's hopes 
might have blinded his judgment, and upon my own 
responsibility consulted a skilful physician, who had on 
many former occasions attended her. She was not 
aware of my present alarm, or that the physician was 
now consulted. He managed in a playful manner to 
feel her pu'se, without her suspicions. After he had 
left the room, * Madam,' said he, ' it is useless to hold 
out any false hopes; your daughter has a seated con- 
sumption, which is, I fear, beyond the reach of medical 
skill. There is no hope in the case ; make her as happy 



1 18 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

and as comfortable as you can ; let her enjoy riding in 
pleasant weather, but her walks must be given up ; 
walking is too great an exertion for her.' With an 
aching heart I returned to the lovely unconscious vic- 
tim, and found her tying on her hat for a ramble. I 
gently tried to dissuade her from going. She caught 
my eye, and read there a tale of grief, which she could 
not understand, and I could not explain. As soon as I 
dared trust my voice, I said ' My dear Margaret, 
nothing has happened, only I have just been speaking 

with Dr. , respecting you, and he advises that you 

give up walking altogether. Knowing how much you 
enjoy it, I am pained to mention this, for I know that 
it will be a great privation.' ' Why, mamma,' she 
exclaimed, ' this cold is wearing off, may I not walk 
then V * The Doctor thinks you should make no exer- 
tion of that kind, but riding in fine weather may have 
a happy effect.' She stood and gazed upon my face 
long and earnestly ; then untied her hat and sat down, 
apparently ruminating upon what had past ; she asked 
no questions, but an expression of thoughtfulness clouded 
her brow during the rest of the day. It was settled that 
she was to ride out in fine weather, but not to walk out 
at all, and in a day or two she seemed to have forgotten 
the circumstance altogether. The return of the cough, 
and profuse night perspirations, too plainly told me her 
doom, but I still clung to the hope, that, as she suffered 
no pain, she might, by tender judicious treatment, con- 
tinue yet for years. I urged her to remit her labours ; 
she saw how much my heart was in the request, and 
promised to comply with my wishes. On the first of 
May we removed to Saratoga. One short half hour 
in the railroad car completed the journey, and she 



BIOGRAPHY. 119 

arrived fresh, cheerful, and bIooQ:iing, in her appear- 
ance, such an effect had the excitement of pleasure 
upon her lovely face." 

On the day we left Ballston she wrote a " Parting 
Word" to Mrs. H., who had been one of our most inti- 
mate and affectionate visiters throughout the winter, 
and whose husband had assisted her much in her studies 
of moral philosophy, as well as delighted her by his 
varied and instructive conversation. 

A PARTING WORD TO MY DEAR MRS. H. 

Ballston Spa, April 30, 1838. 

At length the awful morn hath come, 

The parting hour is nigh, 
And I sit down 'mid dust and gloom, 

To bid you brief " good-bye." 

Each voice to fancy's listening ear, 

Repeats the doleful cry. 
And the bare walls and sanded floor, 

Re-echo back " good-bye." 

So must it be ; but many a thought 

Comes crowding on my mind, 
Of the dear friends, the happy hours, 

The joys we leave behind. 

How we shall miss your cheerful face, 

For ever bright and smiling. 
And your sweet voice so often heard. 

Our weary hours beguiling I 

How shall we miss the kindly hearts. 

Which none can know unloving, 
Whose thoughts and feelings none can read. 

Nor find his own improving ! 



120 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And he, whose converse, hour by hour, 
Hath lent old Time new pinions, 

Whose hand hath drawn the shadowy veil 
From wisdom's broad dominions ; 

Whose voice hath poured forth priceless gems, 
Scarce conscious that he taught, 

Whose mind of broad, of loftiest reach, 
Hath shower'd down thought on thought. 

True, we may meet with many a dear 

And cherish'd friend, but yet 
Ofl shall we cast a backward glance 

Of wistful, vain regret. 

When evening spreads her sombre veil. 

To fold the slumbering earth. 
When our small circle closes round 

The humble, social hearth — 

Oft shall we dream of hours gone by, 

And con these moments o'er, 
'Till we half bend our ears to catch 

Your footsteps at the door, 
And then turn back and sigh to think 

We hear those steps no more ! 

But though these dismal thoughts arise, 

Hope makes me happy still ; 
There is a drop of comfort lurks 

In every draught of ill ! 

By pain and care each joy of earth 

More exquisite is made. 
And when we meet the parting grief 

Shall doubly be o'erpaid. 

In disappointments deep too quick 

Our fairest prospects drown, 
Let not this hope, which blooms so bright 

Be wither'd at his frown I 



BIOGRAPHY. 121 

Come, and a mother's pallid cheek 

Shall brighten at your smile, 
And her poor frame, so faint and weak, 

Forget its pains the while. 

Come, and a glad and happy heart 

Shall give the welcome kiss, 
And puss shall purr, and frisk, and mew, 

In token of her bliss. 

Come ! and behold how I improve 

In dusting — cleaning — sweeping ; 
And I will hear, with patient ear, 

Your lectures on housekeeping. 

And now, may all good angels guard 

Your path where'er it lie ; 
May peace reign monarch in your breast, 

And gladness in your eye. 

And may the dews of health descend 

On him you cherish best, 
To his worn frame their influence lend 

And calm each nerve to rest ! 

And may we meet again, nor feel 

The parting hour so nigh — 
Peace love and happiness to all, 

Once more — once more, " good-bye !" 

*' She interested herself," continued Mrs. Davidson, 
" more than I had anticipated in the arrangement of 
our new habitation, and in forming plans of future 
enjoyment with our friends when they should visit us ; 
I exerted myself to please her taste in every thing, 
although she was prohibited from making the slightest 
physical exertion herself. The house settled, then came 
the flower-garden, in which she spent more time than 
I thought prudent ; but she was so happy while thus 
engaged, and the weather being fine, and the gardener 

9 



122 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

disposed to gratify and carry all her little plans into 
effect, I, like a weak mother, wanted resolution to 
interfere, and have always reproached myself for it, 
although not conscious that it was an injury at the time. 
Her brother had invited her to return to New York with 
him when he came to visit us in June, and she was now 
impatiently counting the days until his arrival. Her 
feelings are portrayed in a letter to her young friend H." 

Saratoga, June 1, 1838. 

June is at last with us, my dear cousin, and the blue- 
eyed goddess could not have looked upon the green 
bosom of her mother earth attired in a lovelier or more 
enchanting robe. I am seated by an open window, 
and the breeze laden with the perfumes of the blossoms 
and opening leaves just lifts the edge of my sheet, and 
steals with the gentlest footsteps imaginable to fan my 
cheek and forehead. The grass tinged with the deepest 
and freshest green is waving beneath its influence ; the 
birds are singing their sweetest songs ; and as I look into 
the depths of the clear blue sky the rich tints appear 
to flit higher and higher as I gaze, till my eye seems 
searching into immeasurable distance. Oh ! such a day 
as this, it is a luxury to breathe. I feel as if I could 
frisk and gambol like my kitten from the mere con- 
sciousness of life. Yet with all the loveliness around 
me I reperuse your letter, and long for wings to fly from 
it all to the dull atmosphere and crowded highways of 
the city. Yes ! I could then look into your eyes and I 
should forget the blue sky ; and your smile, and your 
voice would doubly compensate me for the loss of green 
trees and singing birds. There are green trees in the 
heart which shed a softer perfume, and birds which sing 



BIOGRAPHY. 123 

more sweetly. " Nonsense ! Mag is growing senti- 
nnental!" I knew you would say so, but the streak 
came across me and you have it at full length. In 
plainer terms, how delighted, how more than delighted 
I shall be when I do come ! when I do come, Kate ! 
oh ! oh ! oh ! — what would our language be without 
interjections, those expressive parts o speech, which 
say so much in so small a compass! Now I am 
sure you can understand from these three syllables 
all the pleasure, the rapture I anticipate; the meeting, 
the parting, all the component parts of that great 
whole which I denominate a visit to New York ! No, 
not to New York ! but to the few dear friends whose 
society will afford me all the enjoyment I expect or 
desire, and who, in fact, constitute all my New York. 

June 2d. I had written thus far, dear Kate, when I 
was most agreeably interrupted by a proposal for a 
ride on horseback ; my sheet slid of itself into the open 
drawer, my hat and dress flew on as if by instinct, and 
in ten minutes I wa galloping full speed through the 
streets of our little village with father by my side. I rode 
till nearly tea-time and came home tired, tired, tired ; 
oh 1 ache to think of it. My poor letter slept all night 
as soundly as its writer, but now that another day has 
dawned, the very opposite of its predecessor, damp, dark 
and rainy, I have drawn it forth from its receptacle, and 
seek to dissipate all outward gloom, by communing with 
one the thought of horn conveys to my mind any thing 
but melancholy. Oh, Kate, Kate, in spite of your dis- 
interested and sober advice to the contrary, I shall 
come, I shall soon come, just as soon as M. can and 
will run up for me. Yet, perhaps, in the end I shall 
be disappointed. My happy anticipations resemble the 
cloudless sky of yesterday, and who knows but a stormy 



124 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

to-morrow may erase the brilliant tints of hope as 
well as those of nature. ****** Do write quickly 
and tell me if I am to prepare. If you continue to feel 
as when you last wrote, and still advise me not to 
come, I shall dispose of your advice in the most ap- 
proved manner, throw it to the winds, and embark 
armed and equipped for your city to make my destined 
visit, and fulfil its conditions by fair means or foul, and 
bring you home in triumph. Oh ! we shall have fine 
times. Oh dear, I blush to look back upon my sheet 
and see so many Ts in it. 

The time of her brother's coming drew near. He 
would be with us at nine in the morning. At eleven 
they were to start. I prepared all for her departure 
with my own hand, lest, should I trust it to a domestic 
to make the arrangements, she would make some ex- 
ertion herself. She sat by me while thus engaged, 
relating playful anecdotes, until I urged her to retire 
for the night. On going into her room an hour or two 
afterwards, I was alarmed to find her in a high fever. 
About midnight she was taken with bleeding at the 
lungs. I flew to her father, and in a few minutes a 
vein was opened in her arm. To describe our feelings 
at this juncture is impossible. We stood gazing^t each 
other in mute despair. After that shock had sub- 
sided her father retired, and I seated myself by the bed- 
side to watch her slumbers, and the rising sun found 
me still at my post. She awoke, pale, feeble and ex- 
hausted by the debilitating perspiration which attended 
her sleep. She was surprised to find that I had not 
been in bed ; but when she attempted to speak I laid 
my finger upon her lips and desired her to be silent. 



BIOGRAPHY. 125 

She understood my motive, and when I bent my head 
to kiss her, I saw a tear upon her cheek. I told her 
the necessity of perfect quiet, and the danger which 
would result from agitation. Before her brother came 
she desired to rise, I assisted her to do so, and he 
found her quietly seated in her easy chair, perfectly 
composed in manner, and determined not to increase 
her difficulties by giving way to feelings which must 
at that time have oppressed her heart. My son was 
greatly shocked to find her in this state. I met him 
and I rged the importance of perfect self-possession on 
his part, as any sudden agitation might in her present 
alarming state be fatal. Poor fellow ! he subdued his 
feelings and met her with a cheerful smile which con- 
cealed a heart almost bursting with sorrow. The pro- 
priety of her taking this jaunt had been discussed by 
her father and myself for a number of weeks. We 
both thought her too ill to leave home, but her strong 
desire to go, the impression she had imbibed that travel- 
ling would greatly benefit her health, and the pleading 
of friends in her behalf, on the ground that disappoint- 
ment would have a more unfavourable effect than the 
journey possibly could have, all had their effect in lead- 
ing us to consent. It was possible it might be of use 
to her, although it was at best an experiment of a doubt- 
ful nature. But this attack was decisive : yet caution 
must be used in breaking the matter to her in her present 
weak state. Her brother stayed a day or two with us, 
and then returned, telling her that when she was able 
to perform the journey, he would come again and take 
her with him. After he left us, she soon regained her 
usual strength, and in a fortnight her brother returned 
and took her to New York. 



126 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The anxiety of Mrs. Davidson was intense until she 
received her first letter. It was written from New 
York, and in a cheerful vein, speaking encouragingly 
of her health, but showing more solicitude about the 
health and well being of her mother than of her own. 
She continued to write frequently, giving animated 
accounts of scenes and persons. 

The following extract relates to an excursion, in 
company with two of her brothers, into West Chester 
county, one of the pleasantest, and, until recently, the 
least fashionably known, regions on the banks of the 
Hudson. 

" At three o'clock, we were in the Singsing steamer, 
with the water sparkling below, and the sun broiling 
over head. In the course of our sail a huge thunder- 
cloud arose, and I retreated, quite terrified, to the 
cabin. But it proved a refreshing shower. Oh ! how 
sweet, how delightful the air was. When we landed 
at the dock, every thing looked so fresh and green! 
We mounted into a real country vehicle, and rattled 
up the hill to the village inn, a quiet, pleasant little 
house. I was immediately shown to my room, where 
I stayed until tea-time, enjoying the prospect of a 
splendid sunset upon the mountains, and resting after 
the fatigues of the day. At seven, we drank tea, a 
meal strongly contrasted with the fashionable meagre 
unsocial city tea. The table was crowded with every 
thing good, in the most bountiful style, and served 
with the greatest- attention by the landlord's pretty 
daughter. I retired soon after tea, and slept soundly 
until daybreak. After breakfast, we sent for a car- 
riage to take us along the course of the Croton, to see 
the famous water-works, but, to our disappointment. 



BIOGRAPHY. 127 

every carriage was engaged, and we could not go. 
In the afternoon, a party was nnade up to go in a boat 
across the river, and ascend a mountain to a singular 
lake upon its summit, where all the implements of 
fishing were provided, and a collation was prepared. 
In short it was a pic-nic. To this we were invited, 
but on learning they would not return until nine or 
ten in the evening, that scheme also was abandoned. 
Towards night we walked around the village, looked 
at the tunnel, and visited the ice-cream man, and in 
spite of my various disappointments, I retired quite 
happy and pleased with my visit. The next day was 
Sunday, and we proposed going to the little Dutch 
church, a few miles distant, and hearing the service 
performed in Dutch ; but lo ! on drawing aside my 
curtains in the morning it rained, and we were obhged 
to content ourselves as well as we could until the rain 
was over. After dinner the sun again peeped out, as 
if for our special gratification, and in a few minutes a 
huge country waggon, with a leathern top and two 
sleek horses drew up to the door. We mounted into 
it and away we rattled over the most beautiful coun- 
try I ever saw. Oh ! it was magnificent ! Every now 
and then the view of the broad Hudson, with its distant 
hills, and the clouds resting on their summits, burst 
upon our view. Now we would ascend a lofty hill, 
clothed with forests, and verdure of the most brilliant 
hues; now dash down into a deep ravine with a 
stream w^inding and gurgling along its bed, with its 
tiny waves rushing over the wheel of some rustic 
mill, embosomed in its shade and solitude. Every 
now and then the gable end of some low Dutch building 
would present itself before us, smiling in its peaceful 



128 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Stillness, and conveying to the mind a perfect picture 
of rural simplicity and comfort, although, perhaps, of 
ignorance. At length we paused upon the summit of 
a gentle hill, and judge of my delight when I beheld 
below me the old Dutch church, the quiet, secluded, 
beautiful little churchyard, the running stream, the 
path, and the rustic bridge, the ever memorable scene 
of Ichabod's adventure with the headless horseman. 
There, thought I, rushed the poor pedagogue, his 
knees cramped up to his saddle-bow with fear, his 
hands grasping his horse's mane, with convulsive 
energy, in the hope that the running stream might 
arrest the progress of his fearful pursuer, and allow 
him to pass in safety. Vain hope ! scarce had he 
reached the bridge when he heard, rattling behind 
him, the hoofs of his fiendish companion. The church 
seemed in a blaze to his bewildered eyes, and urging 
on, on, he turned to look once more, when, horror of 
horrors ! the head, the fearful head, was in the act of 
descending upon his devoted shoulders. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
I never laughed so in ray life. Well, we rode on 
through the scene of poor Andre's capture, and dashed 
along the classic valley of Sleepy Hollow. After a 
long and delightful drive, we returned in time for tea. 
After tea we were invited into Mrs. F.'s parlour, where, 
after a short lime, were collected quite a party of ladies 
and gentlemen. At nine we were served with ice- 
cream, wine, &c. I retired very much pleased and 
very much fatigued. Early in the morning we rose 
with the most brilliant sun, breakfasted, mounted once 
more into the waggon, and rattled off to the dock. Oh ! 
that I could describe to you how fresh and sweet the 
air was. I felt as if I wanted to open my mouth wide 



BIOGRAPHY. 129 

and inhale it. We gave M. our parting kisses, and 
soon found ourselves once more, after this charming 
episode, approaching the mighty city. We had a de- 
lightful sail of two or three hours, and again rode up to 
dear aunt M.'s, where all seemed glad at my return. I 
spent the remainder of the day in resting and reading." 

In these artless epistles, continues Mrs. Davidson, 
there is much of character, for who could imagine this 
constant cheerfulness, this almost forgetfulness of self, 
these affectionate endeavours, by her sweetly playful 
account of all her employments while absent, to dis- 
pel the grief which she knew was preying upon my 
mind on account of her illness? Who could conceive 
the pains she took to conceal from me the ravages 
which disease was daily making upon her form ? She 
was never heard to complain, and in her letters to 
me, she hardly alludes to her illness. The friends to 
whom I had entrusted her, during her short period of 
absence, sometimes feared that she would never be 
able to reach home again. Her brother told me, but 
not until long after her return, that on her way home 
she really fainted several times from debility — and that 
he took her from the boat to the carriage as he would 
have done an infant. 

On the sixth of July, I once more folded to my 
heart this cherished object of my solicitude, but oh, 
the change which three short weeks had wrought in 
her appearance struck me forcibly. I was so wholly 
unprepared for it, that I nearly fainted. After the 
excitement of the meeting (which she had evidently 
summoned all her fortitude to bear with composure) 
was over, she sat down by me, and passing her thin 
arm around my waist, said, " Oh, my dear mamma, I 



130 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

am home again at last ; I now feel as if I never wanted 
to leave you again; I have had a delightful visit, my 
friends were all glad to see me, and have watched 
over me with all the kindness and care which affec- 
tion could dictate, but oh, there is no place like home, , 
and no care like a mother's care ; there is something 
in the very air of home, and in the sound of your 
voice, mother, which makes me happier just now,' 
than all the scenes which I have passed through in 
my little jaunt; oh, after all, home is the only place for 
a person as much out of health as I am." I strove to 
support my emotions, while I marked her pale cheek 
and altered countenance. She fixed her penetrating 
eyes upon my face, kissed me, and drawing back to 
take a more full survey of the effects which pain and 
anxiety had wrought in me, kissed me again and again, 
saying, *• she knew I had deeply felt the want of her 
society, and now once more at home, she should so 
prize its comforts as to be in no haste to leave it 
again." She was much wasted, and could hardly 
walk from one room to another ; her cough was very 
distressing; she had no pain, but a languor and de- 
pression of spirits, foreign to her nature. She struggled 
against this debility, and called up all the energies of 
her mind to overcome it ; her constant reply to inqui- 
ries about her health, by the friends who called, was 
the same as formerly, " Well, quite well — mother calls 
me an invalid, but I feel well." Yet, to me, when 
alone, she talked more freely of her symptoms, and I 
thought I could discern from her manner, that she had 
apprehensions as to the result. I had often endea- 
voured to acquire firmness sufficient to tell her what 
was her situation, but she seemed so studiously to 



BIOGRAPHY. 131 

avoid the disclosure, that my resolution had hitherto 
been unequal to the task. But I was much surprised 
one day, not long after her return from New York, 
by her asking me to tell her, without reserve, my 
opinion of her state. The question wrung my very heart; 
I was wholly unprepared for it, and it w^as put in so 
solemn a manner, that I could not evade it, were I 
disposed to do so. I knew with what strong affection 
she clung to life, and the objects and friends which 
endeared it to her; I knew how bright the world upon 
which she was just entering appeared to her young 
fancy, what glowing pictures she had drawn of future 
usefulness and happiness. I was now called upon, at 
one blow, to crush these hopes, to destroy the delight- 
ful visions, which had hovered around her from her 
cradle until this very period ; it would be cruel and 
wrong to deceive her; in vain I attempted a reply to 
her direct and solemn appeal, and my voice grew 
husky; several times I essayed to speak, but the words 
died away on my lips; I could only fold her to my 
heart in silence, imprint a kiss upon her forehead, and 
leave the room to avoid agitating her with feelings I 
had no power to repress. 

The following extract from a letter to her brother 
in New York, dated a short time after this incident 
occurred, and which I never saw until after her de- 
parture, will best portray her own feehngs at this 
period. 

" As to my health at present, I feel as well as when 
you were here, and the cough is much abated, but 
it is evident to me, that mother thinks me not so 
well as before I left home ; I do not myself believe 
that I have gained any thing from the visit, and in a 



132 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

case like mine, standing still is certainly loss, but ] 
feel no worse. However, I have learned that feel- 
ings are no criterion of disease. Now, brother, Ij 

want to know what Dr. M discovered, or thoiightj 

he discovered, in his examination of my lungs ; fatherj 
says nothing — mother, when I ask, cannot tell me, and; 
looks so sad ! Now, I ask you, hoping to be answered.! 
If you have not heard the doctor say, I wish you' 
would ask him, and write to me. If it is more un-; 
favourable than I anticipate, it is best I should know 
now ; if it is the contrary, how much pain and restless- 
ness and suspicion, will be spared me by the know- 
ledge. As to myself, I feel and know that my health is 
in a most precarious state, that the disease we dread 
has perhaps fastened upon me, but I have an impres- 
sion, that if I make use of the proper remedies and I 
exercise, I may yet recover a tolerable degree of health. 
I do not feel that my case is incurable; I wish to know 
if I am wrong. I have rode on horseback twice since 
you left me ; dear, dear brother, what a long egotistic 
letter I have written you ; do forgive me, my heart 
was full, and I felt that I must unburden it. I wish 
you would write me a long letter. Do not let dear 
mother know at present the questions I have asked 
you." * * # * # *- 

From this period she grew more thoughtful. There 
was even a solemnity in her manner which I never 
before observed. Her mind, as I mentioned before, 
had been much perplexed by some doctrinal points. 
To solve these doubts I asked if I should not send 
for some clergyman. See said no. She had heard 
many discussions on these subjects, and they had 
always served rather to confuse than to convince her. 



BIOGRAPHY. 



133 



" I would rather converse with you alone, mother." 
She then asked me if I thought it essential to salvation 
that she should adopt any particular creed. I felt that 
I was an inefficient, perhaps a blind guide, yet it was 
my duty not only to impart consolation, but to explain 
to her my own views of the truth. I replied that I con- 
sidered faith and repentance only, to be essential to sal- 
vation ; that it was very desirable that her mind should 
be settled upon some particular mode of faith ; but that 
I did not think it absolutely necessary that she should 
adopt the tenets of any established church, and again 
recommended an attentive pemsal of the new Testa- 
ment. She expressed her firm belief in the divinity 
of Christ. The perfections of his character, its beauty 
and holiness excited her admiration, while the benevo- 
lence which prompted the sacrifice of himself to save 
a lost world, filled her with the most enthusiastic 
gratitude. It was a source of regret that so much of 
her time had been spent in light reading, and that her 
writings had not been of a more decidedly religious 
character. She lamented that she had not chosen 
scriptural subjects for the exercise of her poetical talent, 
and said, " Mamma, should God spare my life, my time 
and talents shall for the future be devoted to a higher 
and holier end." She felt that she had trifled with the 
jgifts of Providence, and her self-condemnation and 
grief were truly affecting. " And must I die so young? 
My career of usefulness hardly commenced? Oh! 
mother, how sadly have I trifled with the gifts of 
Heaven! What have I done which can benefit one 
human being V I folded her to my heart, and endea- 
voured to soothe the tumult of her feelings, bade her 
remember her dutiful conduct as a daughter, her aflfec- 



134 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

tionate bearing as a sister and a friend, and the consola- 
tion which she had afforded me through years of suffering! 
" Oh my mother," said she, " I have been reflecting much 
of late, upon this sad waste of intellect, and had marked 
out for myself a course of usefulness which, should God 
spare my life — " Here her emotions became too power- 
ful to proceed. At times she suffered much anxiety with 
regard to her eternal welfare, and deeply lamented her 
want of faithfulness in the performance of her religious 
duties; complained of coldness and formality in her de- 
votional exercises, and entreated me to pray with and 
for her. At other times, 'her hope of heaven would be 
bright, her faith unwavering and her devotion fervent. 
Yet it was evident to me, that she still cherished the hope 
that her life might be prolonged. Her mother had 
lingered for years in a state equally hopeless, and during 
that period had been enabled to attend to the moral and 
religious culture of her little family. Might not the same 
kind Providence prolong her life 1 It would be vain to 
attempt a description of those seasons of deep and thrill- 
ing interest. God alone knows in what way my own 
weak frame was sustained. I felt that she had been 
renovated and purified by Divine Grace, and to see her 
thus distressed when I thought that all the consolations 
of the Gospel ought to be hers, gave my heart a severe 
pang. Many of our friends now were of opinion that a 
change of climate might benefit, perhaps restore her. 
Heretofore, when the suggestion had been made, she 
shrunk from the idea of leaving her home for a distant 
clime. Now her anxiety to try the effect of a change 
was great. I felt that it would be vain, although I was 
desirous that nothing should be left untried. Feeble as 
she now was, the idea of her resigning the comforts of 



BIOGRAPHY. 135 

home, and being subject to the fatigues of travelling in 
pubhc conveyances was a dreadful one, yet if there was 
a rational prospect of prolonging her life by these means, 
I was anxious to give them a trial. Dr. Davidson, after 
much deliberation on the subject, called counsel. Dr. 

came, and when, after half an hour's pleasant 

and playful conversation with Margaret, he joined us 
in the parlour, oh ! how my poor heart trembled. I 
hung upon the motions of his lips as if my own life 
depended on what they might utter. At length he spoke, 
and I felt as if an icebolt had passed through my heart. 
He had never thought, though he had known her many 
years, that a change of climate would benefit her. She 
had lived beyond ins expectations many months, even 
years ; and now he was convinced, were we to attempt 
to take her to a southern climate, that she would die on 
the passage. Make it as pleasant as possible for her at 
home, was his advice. He thought that a few months 
must terminate her life. She knew that we had confi- 
dence in the opinion of this, her favourite physician. 
When I had gained firmness enough to answer her 
questions, I again entered the room and found her 
composed, though she had evidently been strongly 
agitated, and had not brought her mind to hear her 
doom. Never, oh ! never to the latest hour of my life, 
shall I forget the look she gave me when I met her. 
What a heart-rending task was mine ! I performed it as 
gently as possible. I said the doctor thought her 
strength unequal to the fatigue of the journey ; that he 
was not so great an advocate for change of climate as 
many persons; that he had known many cases in which 
he thought it injurious, and his best advice was, that we 
should again ward off the severity of the winter by 
creating an atmosphere within our house. She mildly 



136 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

acquiesced, and the subject was dropped altogether. 
She sometimes read, and frequently, from mere habit, 
held a book in her hand when unable to digest its con- 
tents, and within the book there usually rested a piece 
of paper, upon which she occasionally marked the 
reflections which arose in her mind, either in poetry or 
prose." 

We here interrupt the narrative of Mrs. Davidson, to 
insert a copy of verses addressed by Margaret to her 
brother, a young officer in the army, and stationed at a 
frontier part in the far west. They were written in 
September, about two months before her death, and are 
characterized throughout by her usual beauty of thought 
and tenderness of feeling ; but the last verse, which 
alludes to the fading verdure, and falling leaf, and 
gathering melancholy, and lifeless quiet of the season, 
as typical of her own blighted youth and approaching 
dissolution, has something in it peculiarly solemn and 
affecting. 

TO MY SOLDIER BROTHER IN THE FAR WEST * 

'Tis an autumn eve, and the tints of day 

From the west are slowly stealing, 
And the clouds round the couch of the setting sun 

Are gently and silently wheeling. 
'Tis the scene and the hour for the soul to bathe 

In its own deep springs of feeling, 
And my thoughts, from their galling bonds set free. 
Have fled to the "far, far west" to thee I 

And perchance, 'mid the toils of thy varied life, 

Thou also art pausing awhile. 
To behold how beautiful all things look 

In the sunlight's passing smile ; 

* This copy of verses has come to hand since the publication of the 
first edition of this memoir. 



BIOGRAPHY. 137 

And perchance recollections of kindred and home 

Thy cares for a moment beguile ; 
Thy thoughts have met mine in their passage to thee, 
And though distant, far distant, our spirits are free ! 

I know thou art dreaming of home. 

And the dear ones sheltered there ; 
Of thy mother, pale with the pain of years. 

And thy sire with his silvered hair ; 
And with them blend thoughts of thy boyish years 

When the world looked all so fair. 
When thy cheek flushed high at the voice of praise, 

And thy breast was unknown to care ; 
And while memory burns her torch for thee, 
I know that these thoughts and these dreams will be ! 

But when, in the shade of the autumn wood, 

Thy wandering footsteps stray, 
When yellow leaves and perishing buds 

Are scattered in thy way ; 
When all around thee breathes of rest 

And sadness and decay — 
With the drooping flower, and the falling tree. 
Oh I brother, blend thy thoughts of me ! 

" The following fragments," continues Mrs. Davidson, 
" appear to be the very breathings of her soul during the 
last few weeks of her life, written in pencil, in a hand so 
weak and tremulous that I could with difficulty decipher 
them word by word with the aid of a strong magnifying 
glass. 

•' Consumption ! child of wo, thy blighting breath 
Marks all that's fair and lovely for thine own. 
And, sweeping o'er the silver chords of life. 
Blends all their music in one deathlike tone." 



1838. 



" What strange, what mystic things we are, 
With spirits longing to outlive the stars. 
******** but even in decay 

10 



138 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Hasting to meet our brethren in the dust. 
As one small dewdrop runs, another drops 
To sink unnoticed in the world of waves." 

" O it is sad to feel that when a few short years 
Of life are past, we shall lie down, unpitied 
And unknown, amid a careless world ; 
That youth and age and revelry and grief 
Above our heads shall pass, and we alone 
Shall sleep ! alone shall be as we have been. 
No more. ***** 

These are unfinished fragments, a part of which I 
could not decipher at all. I insert them to give an 
idea of the daily operations of her mind during the 
whole of this long summer of suffering. Her gentle 
spirit never breathed a murmur or complaint. I think 
she was rarely heard to express even a feeling of 
weariness. But here are a few more of those outpour- 
ings of the heart. I copy these little effusions with all 
their errors ; there is a sacredness about them which 
forbids the change even of a single letter. The first of 
the fragments which follow was written on a Sabbath 
evening in autumn, not many weeks before her death. 

It is autumn, the season of rapid decay, 

When the flow'rets of summer are hasting away 

From the breath of the wintry blast, 
And the buds which oped to the gazer's eye, 
And the glowing tints of the gorgeous sky. 
And the forests robed in their emerald dye. 

With their loveliest blossoms have past. 

'Tis eve, and the brilliant sunset hue 
Is replaced by a sky of the coldest blue, 

Untouched by a floating cloud. 
And all nature is si ent, calm and serene, 
As though sorrow and suffering never had been 

On this beautiful earth abroad. 



BIOGRAPHY. ^_ 139 

'Tis a Sabbath eve, and the longing soul 
Is charm'd by its quiet and gentle control 

From each wayward and wandering thought, 
And it longs from each meaner affection to move, 
And it soareth the troubles of earth above 
To bathe in that fountain of light and love, 

Whence our purest enjoyments are caught. 
1838. 

But winter, O what shall thy greeting be 

From our waters, our earth, and our sky ? 
What welcoming strains shall arise for thee 

As thy chariot wheels draw nigh ? 
Alas ! the fresh flowers of the spirit decay 

As thy cold, cold steps advance, 
And even young Fancy is shrinking away 

From the chill of thy terrible glance; 
And Hope with her mantle of rainbow hue 

Hath fled from thy freezing eye, 
And her bright train of visions are melting in air 

As thy shivering blasts sweep by. 
Thy ****** 

Oct. 1838. 

THE NATURE OF THE SOUL. 

The spirit, what is it ? Mysterious, sublime. 

Undying, unchanging, for ever the same. 
It bounds lightly athwart the dark billows of time, 

And moves on unscorched by its heavenly flame. 

Man owns thee and feels thee, and knows thee divine; 

He feels thou art his, and thou never canst die ; 
He believes thee a gem from the Maker's pure shrine, 

A portion of purity holy and high. 

'Tis around him, within him, the source of his life, 
Yet too weak to contemplate its glory and might ; 

He trembling shrinks back to dull earth's humble strife, 
And leaves the pure atmosphere glowing with light. 

Thou spark from the Deity's radiant throne, 

I know thee, yet shrink from thy greatness and power ; 

Thou art mine in thy splendour, I feel thee my own, 
Yet behold me as frail as the light summer flower. 



140 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

I strive in my weakness to gaze on thy might, 
To trace out thy wanderings through ages to come, 

Till like birds on the sea, all exhausted, at length 
I flutter back weary to earth as my home. 

Like a diamond when laid in a rough case of clay. 

Which may crumble and wear from the pure gem enclosed, 

But which ne'er can be lit by one tremulous ray 

From the glory-crown'd star in its dark case reposed. 

As the cool weather advanced, her decline became 
more visible, and she devoted more and more of her time 
to searching the Scriptures, self-examination and sub- 
jects for reflection, and questions which were to be 
solved by evidences deduced from the Bible. I found 
them but a few days before her death, in the sacred 
volume which lay upon the table, at which she usually 
sat during her hours of retirement. She had been 
searching the holy book, and overcome by the exertion, 
rang the bell which summoned me to her side, for no 
person but myself was admitted during the time set 
apart for her devotional exercises. 

Subjects for reflection. 

1st. The uniform usefulness of Christ's miracles. 

2d. The manner in which he overthrows all the 
exalted hopes which the Jews entertain of a temporal 
kingdom, and strives to explain to them the entire spi- 
rituality of the one he has come to erect. 

3d. The deep and unchangeable love for man, which 
must have impelled Christ to resist so many temptations 
and endure so many sufferings, even death, that truth 
might enlighten the world, and heaven and immortality 
become realities instead of dreams. 

4th. The general thoughtlessness of man with regard 
to his greatest, his only interest. 

5th. Christ's constant submission to the will of his 



BIOGRAPHY. 141 

Father, and the necessity of our imitating the meek and 
calm and gentle qualities of his character, together with 
that firmness of purpose and confidence in God which 
sustained him to the end. 

6th. The necessity of so living, that we need not fear 
to think each day our last. 

7th. The necessity of religion to soothe and support 
the mind on the bed of sickness. 

8th. Self examination. 

9th. Is Christ mentioned expressly in Scripture as 
equal with God and a part ? 

10th. Is there sufficient ground for the doctrine of the 
Trinity ? 

11th. Did Christ come as a prophet and reformer of 
the world, or as a sacrifice for our sins, to appease the 
wrath of his Father. 

12th. Is any thing said of infant baptism ? 

Written in November, 1838. 

About three weeks before her departure, I one morn- 
ing found her in the parlour, where, as I before observed, 
she spent a portion of her time in retirement. I saw that 
she had been much agitated, and seemed weary. I 
seated myself by her and rested her head on my bosom, 
while 1 gently pressed my hand upon her throbbing tem- 
ples to soothe the agitation of her nerves. She kissed 
me again and again, and seemed as if she feared to trust 
her voice to speak lest her feelings should overcome her. 
As I returned her caresses, she silently put a folded paper 
in my hand. I began to open it, when she gently laid 
her hand on mine, and said in a low tremulous tone, 
" Not now, dear mother !" I then led her back to her 
room, and placed her upon the sofa, and retired to exa- 
mine the paper. It contained the following lines. 



142 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Oh mother, would the power were mine 
To wake the strain thou lov'st to hear. 

And breathe each trembling new-born thought. 
Within thy fondly listening ear, 

As when in days of health and glee. 

My hopes and fancies wander'd free. 

But, mother, now a shade has past 
Athwart my brightest visions here, 

A cloud of darkest gloom has wrapt 
The remnant of my brief career I 

No song, no echo can I win, — 

The sparkling fount has died within. 

The torch of earthly hope burns dim, 

And fancy spi-eads her win:gs na more; 
And oh, how vain and trivial seem 

The pleasures that I prized before. 
My soul, with trembling steps and slow, 

Is struggling on through doubt and strife : 
Oh ! may it prove, as time rolls on, 

The pathway to eternal life — 
Then, when my cares and fears are o'er„ 
I'll sing thee as in days of yore. 

I said that hope had pass'd from earth : 
'Twas but to fold her wings in Heaven, 

To whisper of the soul's new birth. 
Of sinners saved and sins forgiven. 

When mine are wash'd in tears away. 

Then shall my spirit swell my lay. 

When God shall guide my soul above. 
By the soft cords of heavenly love, 
When the vain cares of earth depart. 
And tuneful voices swell my heart. 
Then shall each word, each note I raise. 
Burst forth in pealing hymns of praise,, 
And all not offered at His shrine. 
Dear mother, I will place on thine^ 



BIOGRAPHY. 143 

It was long before I could gain sufficient composure 
to return to her. When I did so, I found her sweetly 
calm, and she greeted me with a smile so full of affec- 
tion, that I shall cherish the recollection of its brightness 
until my latest breath. It was the last piece she ever 
wrote, except a parody of four lines of the hymn, " I 
would not live always," which was written within the 
last week of her life. 

" I would not live always thus fettered by sin, 
Temptation without, and corruption within, 
With the soul ever dimm'd by its hopes and its fears, 
And the heart's holy flame ever struggling through tears." 



Thus far, in preparing this memoir, we have availed 
ourselves almost entirely of copious memoranda, fur- 
nished us, at our request, by Mrs. Davidson; but 
when the narrator approached the closing scene of 
this most affecting story, the heart of the mother gave 
out, and she found herself totally inadequate to the 
task. Fortunately, Dr. Davidson had retained a copy 
of a letter, written by her in the midst of her affliction 
to Miss Sedgwick, in reply to an epistle from that 
lady, expressive of the kindest sympathy, and making 
some inquiries relative to the melancholy event. We 
subjoin that letter entire, for never have we read any 
thing of the kind more truly eloquent or deeply affecting. 

" Saratoga Springs. 

" Yes, my dear Miss Sedgwick, she is an angel now ; 
calmly and sweetly she sunk to her everlasting rest, as 
a babe gently slumbers on its mother's bosom. I thank 
my Father in heaven that I was permitted to watch 
over her, and I trust administer to her comfort during 



144 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

her illness. I know, my friend, you will not expect 
either a very minute or connected detail of the cir- 
cumstances preceding her change from me at this time, 
for I am indeed bowed down with sorrow. I feel that 
I am truly desolate, how desolate I will not attempt to 
describe. Yet in the depth of grief I have consolations 
of the purest, most soothing and exalted nature. I 
would not, indeed I could not murmur, but rather bless 
my God that he has in the plenitude of his goodness 
made me, even for a brief space on earth, the honoured 
mother of such an angel. Oh my dear Miss Sedgwick, 
I wish you could have seen her during the last two 
months of her brief sojourn with us. Her meekness 
and patience, and her even cheerful bearing were un- 
exampled. But when she was assured that all the 
tender and endearing ties which bound her to earth 
were about to be severed, when she saw that life and 
all its bright visions were fading from her eyes — that 
she was standing at the entrance of the dark valley 
which must be traversed in her way to the eternal 
world, the struggle was great, but brief — she caught 
the hem of her Saviour's robe and meekly bowed to 
the mandate of her God. Since the beginning of Au- 
gust, I have watched this tender blossom with intense 
anxiety, and marked her decline with a breaking heart; 
and although from that time until the period of her de- 
parture, I never spent a whole night in my bed, my 
excitement was so strong that I was unconscious of the 
want of sleep. Oh, my dear madam, the whole course 
of her dechne was so unlike any other death-bed scene 
I ever witnessed ; there was nothing of the gloom of a 
sick chamber; a charm was in and around her; a holy 
light seemed to pervade every thing belonging to her. 
There was a sacredness, if I may so express it, which 



BIOGRAPHY. 145 

seemed to tell the presence of the Divinity. Strangers 
felt it, all acknowledged it. Very few were admitted 
to her sick room, but those few left it with an elevation 
of heart new, solemn, and delightful. She continued to 
ride out as long as the weather was mild, and even 
after she became too weak to walk she frequently de- 
sired to be taken into the parlour, and when there, with 
all her httle implements of drawing and writing, her 
books, and even her little work-box and basket beside 
her, she seemed to think that by these little attempts at 
her usual employments she could conceal from me, for 
she saw my heart was breaking, the ravages of disease 
and her consequent debility. The New Testament was 
her daily study, and a portion of every day was spent 
in private in self-examination and prayer. My dear 
Miss Sedgwick, how I have felt my own httleness, my 
total unworthiness, when compared with this pure, this 
high-souled, intellectual, yet timid, humble child ; bend- 
ing at the altar of her God, and pleading for pardon 
and acceptance in his sight, and grace to assist her in 
preparing for eternity. As her strength wasted, she 
often desired me to share her hours of retirement and 
converse with her, and read to her, when unable to 
read herself. 

" Oh ! how sad, how delightful, how agonizing is the 
memory of the sweet and holy communion we then 
enjoyed. Forgive me, my friend, for thus mingling my 
own feelings with the circumstances you wished to 
know ; and, oh ! continue to pray that God will give 
me submission under this desolating stroke. She was 
my darling, my almost idolized child — truly, truly, you 
have said, the charm of my existence. Her symptoms 
were extremely distressing, although she suffered no 
pain. A week before her departure, she desired that 



M6 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

the sacrament of the Lord's Supper might be adminis- 
tered to her. * Mother,' said she, ' I do not desire it 
because I feel worthy to receive it ; I feel myself a 
sinner, but I desire to manifest my faith in Christ by 
receiving an ordinance instituted by himself but a short 
time before his crucifixion.' The Holy Sacrament was 
administered by Mr. Babcock. The solemnity of the 
scene can be better felt than described. 1 cannot 
attempt it. After it was over, a holy calm seemed to 
pervade her mind, and she looked almost like a beatified 
spirit. The evening following, she said to me, ' Mother, 
I have made a solemn surrender of myself to God : if 
it is his will, I would desire to live long enough to prove 
the sincerity of my profession, but his will be done ; 
living or dying I am henceforth devoted to God.' After 
this some doubt seemed to intrude; her spirit was trou- 
bled. I asked her if there was any thing she desired to 
have done, any little arrangements to be made, any thing 
to say which she had left unsaid, and assured her that 
her wishes should be sacred to me. She turned her 
eyes upon me with an expression so sad, so mournfully 
sweet — ' Mother, " When I can read my title clear to 
mansions in the skies," then I will think of other mat- 
ters.' Her hair, which when a little child had been 
often cut to improve its growth, was now very beauti- 
ful ; and she usually took much pains with it. During 
the whole course of her sickness I had taken care of it. 
One day, not long before her death, she said, evidently 
making a great eflx)rt to speak with composure, ' Mother, 
if you are willing I will have my hair cut off; it is 
troublesome; I should like it better short.' I understood 
her at once, she did not like to have the idea of death 
associated w^ith those beautiful tresses which I had loved 
to braid. She would have them taken off while living. 



BIOGRAPHY. 147 

I mournfully gave my consent, and she said, ' I will not 
ask you, my dear mother, to do it; my friend, Mrs. 

F will be with me to-night, and she will do it for 

me.' The dark rich locks were severed at midnight. 
Never shall I forget the expression of her young faded 
face as I entered ihe room. ' Do not be agitated, dear 
mamma, I am more comfortable now. Lay it away, if 
you please, and to-morrow I will arrange and dispose of 
it. Do you know that I view my hair as something 
sacred ? It is a part of myself, which will be reunited 
to my body at the resurrection.' She had sat in an easy 
chair or reclined upon a sofa for several weeks. On 
Friday the 22d of November, at my urgent entreaty, 
she consented to be laid upon the bed. She found it. a 
relief, and sunk into a deep sleep, from which she was 
only awoke when 1 aroused her to take some refresh- 
ment. When she awoke, she looked and spoke like an 
angel, but soon dropped asleep as before. Oh ! how 
my poor heart trembled, for I felt that it was but the 
precursor to her long last rest, although many of our 
friends thought she might yet linger some weeks. A 
total loss of appetite, and a difficulty in swallowing, 
prevented her from taking any nourishment throughout 
the day, and when we placed her in the easy chair, at 
night, in order to arrange her bed, I offered her some 
nice food, which I had prepared, and found she could 
not take it. My feelings amounted almost to agony. 
She said ' Do not be distressed. I will take it by and 
by.' I seated myself beside her, and she said, ' Surely, 
my dear mother, you have many consolations. You 
are gathering a little family in heaven to welcome you.' 
My heart was full; when I could speak, I said, ' Yes, 
my love, I feel that I am indeed gathering a little 
family in heaven to bid you welcome, but when they 



148 MISS MARCJARET DAVIDSON. 

are all assembled there how dreadful to doubt whether 
I may ever be permitted to join the circle.' * Oh hush, 
dear, dear mother, do not indulge such sad thoughts ; 
the fact of your having trained this little band to inhabit 
that holy place, is sufficient evidence to me that you 
will not fail to join us there.' I was with her myself 
that night, and a friend in the neighbourhood sat up 
also. On Saturday morning, after I had taken half an 
hour's sleep, I found her as quiet as a sleeping infant. I 
prepared her some food, and when I awoke her to take 
it, she said * Dear mother, I will try if it is only to please 
you.' I fed her as I would have fed a babe. She 
smiled sweetly and said, * Mother, I am again an 
infant.' I asked if I should read to her; she said yes, 
she would like to have me read a part of the gospel of 
John. I did so, and then said, * My dear Margaret, you 
look sweetly composed this morning. I trust all is 
peace within your heart.' * Yes, mother, all is peace, 
sweet peace. I feel that I can do nothing for myself. 
I have cast my burden upon Christ.' I asked if she 
could rest her hopes there in perfect confidence. ' Yes,' 
she replied, 'Jesus will not fail me — I can trust him.' 
She then sank into a deep sleep, as on the preceding 
day. In the afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. H. came from 
Ballston. They were much affected by the change a 
few days had made in her appearance. I awoke her, 
fearing she might sleep too long, and said her friends 
had come. She extended her arms to them both, and 
kissed them, saying to Mr. H. that he found her a late 
riser, and then sank to sleep again. Mrs. H. remained 
with us that night. About sunset I spoke to her. She 
awoke and answered me cheerfully, but observing that 
J was unusually depressed, she said, ' Dear mother, I 
am wearing you out.' I replied, ' My child, my beloved 



BIOGRAPHY. 149 

child, it is not that ; the thought of our separation fills 
me with anguish.' I never shall forget the expression 
of her sweet face, as she rephed, ' Mother, my own 
dear mother, do not grieve. Our parting will not be 
long. In life we were inseparable, and I feel that you 
cannot live without me. You will soon join me, and 
we shall part no more.' I kissed her pale cheek, as I 
bent over her, and finding my agitation too strong to 
repress, I left the room. She soon after desired to get 
up; she said she must have a coughing fit, and she 
could bear it better in the chair. When there she 
began to cough, and her distress was beyond descrip- 
tion ; her strength was soon exhausted, and we again 
carried her to the bed. She coughed from six until half 
past ten. I then prevailed on her to take some nutri- 
tious drink, and she fell asleep. 

" My husband and Mrs. H. were both of them anxious 
that I should retire and get some rest, but I did not feel 
the want of it, and impressed as I was with the idea that 
this was the last night she would pass on earth, I could 
not go to bed. But others saw not the change, and to 
satisfy them, 1 went at twelve to my room, which opened 
into hers. There I sat listening to every sound. AH 
seemed quiet. I twice opened the door, and Mrs. H. said 
she slept, and had taken her drink as often as directed, 
and again urged me to go to bed. A little after two I 
put on my night dress, and laid down. Between three 
and four Mrs. H. came in haste for ether. I pointed to 
the bottle, and sprang up. She said, ' I entreat, my dear 
Mrs. Davidson, that you do not rise ; there is no sensible 
change, only a turn of oppression.' She closed the door, 
and I hastened to rise, when Mrs. H. came again, and 
said Margaret has asked for her mother. I flew — she 
held the bottle of ether in her own hand, and pointed to 



150 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

her breast. I poured it on her head and chest. She 
revived. ' I am better now,' said she. ' Mother, you 
tremble, you are cold ; put on your clothes.' I stepped 
to the fire, and threw on a wrapper, when she stretched 
out both her arms, and exclaimed, * Mother, take me in 
your arms.' I raised her, and seating myself on the bed, 
passed my arms around her waist ; her head dropped 
upon my bosom, and her expressive eyes were raised to 
mine. That look I never shall forget; it said, * Tell me, 
mother, is this death?' I answered the appeal as if she 
had spoken. I laid my hand on her white brow — a cold 
dew had gathered there. I spoke, ' Y-es, my beloved, it is 
almost finished ; you will soon be with Jesus.' She 
gave one more look, two or three short fluttering breaths, 
and all was over — her spirit was with its God — not a 
struggle or groan preceded her departure. Her father 
just came in time to witness her last breath. For a long 
half hour I remained in the same position with the pre- 
cious form of my lifeless child upon my bosom. I closed 
those beautiful eyes with my own hand. I was calm. 
I felt that I had laid my angel from my own breast, 
upon the bosom of her God. Her father and myself 
were alone. Her Sabbath commenced in heaven. Ours 
was opened in deep, deep anguish. Our sons, who had 
been sent for, had not arrived, and four days and nights 
did Ellen, (our young nurse, whom Margaret dearly 
loved,) and I, watch over the sacred clay. I could not 
resign this mournful duty to strangers. Although no 
son or relative was with us in this sad and solemn hour, 
never did sorrowing strangers meet with more sympathy, 
than we received in this hour of affliction, from the 
respected inhabitants of Saratoga. We shall carry with 
us through life, the grateful remembrance of their kind- 
ness. And now, my dear madam, let me thank you for 



BIOGRAPHY. 251 

your kind consoling letter, it has given me consolation. 
My Margaret, my now angel child, loved you tenderly. 
She recognised in yours a kindred mind, and I feel that 
her pure spirit will behold with delight your efforts to 
console her bereaved mother." 

She departed this Hfe on the 25th of November, 1838, 
aged fifteen years and eight months ; her earthly remains 
repose in the grave-yard of the village of Saratoga. 

" A few days after her departure," observes Mrs. 
Davidson in a memorandum, " I w^as searching the 
library in the hope of finding some further memento of 
my lost darling, when a packet folded in the form of a 
letter met my eye. It was confined with a needle and 
thread, instead of a seal, and secured more firmly by 
white sewing silk, which was passed several times 
around it; the superscription was, * For my mother, 
private.' Upon opening these papers, I found they con- 
tained the results of self-examination, from a very early 
period of her life, until within a few days of its close. 
These results were noted and composed at different 
periods. They are some of the most interesting relics 
she has left, but they are of too sacred a nature to meet 
the public eye. They display a degree of self-knowledge 
and humility, and a depth of contrition, which could only 
emanate from a heart chastened and subdued by the 
power of the divine grace." 



We here conclude this memoir, which, for the most 
part, as the reader will perceive, is a mere transcript of 
the records furnished by a mother's heart. We shall not 
pretend to comment on these records; they need no 
comment, and they admit no heightening. Indeed, the 



152 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON 

farther we have proceeded with our subject, the more 
has the intellectual beauty and the seraphic purity of the 
little being we have endeavoured to commemorate broken 
upon us ; and the more have we shrunk at our own un- 
worthiness for such a task. To use one of her own 
exquisite expressions, she was " A spirit of heaven fet- 
tered by the strong affections of earth ;'* and the whole 
of her brief sojourn here, seems to have been a struggle 
to regain her native skies. We may apply to her a 
passage from one of her own tender apostrophes to the 
memory of her sister Lucretia. 

One who came from heaven awhile 

To bless the mourners here, 
Their joys to hallow with her smile, 

Their sorrow with her tear. 

Who joined to all the charms of earth 

The noblest gifts of heaven ; 
To whom the Muses at her birth 

Their sweetest smiles had given. 

Whose eye beamed forth with fancy's ray. 

And genius pure and high ; 
Whose very soul had seemed to bathe 

In streams of melody. 



The cheek which once so sweetly beamed. 

Grew pallid with decay, 
The burning fire within consumed 

Its tenement of clay. 

Death, as if fearing to destroy, 
Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 

She gave a tear for those she loved, 
Then met him with a smile. 

END OF THE MEMOIR. 



REMAIN S 



A TALE. 

WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN. 

About the close of the year 1813 there stood, on the 
banks of the Saranac, a small neat cottage, which peeped 
forth from the surrounding foliage the image of rural quiet 
and contentment ; the scenery around it was wildly yet 
beautifully romantic ; the clear blue river, glancing and 
sparkling at its feet, served only as a preparative for another 
and more magnificent view, where the stream, gliding on to 
the west, was buried in the broad white bosom of Champlain, 
which stretched back, wave after wave, in the distance, until 
lost in faint blue mists that veiled the sides of its guardian 
mountains, seeming more lovely from their indistinctness. 

On the borders of the Saranac the little village of Platts- 
burgh had sprung up, in picturesque wildness, amid the 
loveliest haunts of nature, imparting to the mind by its 
indications of man's presence with the joys and sufferings 
even attendant in his train, a deeper interest than a scene of 
solitary nature would ever have inspired. Of all the low- 
roofed and shaded dwellings which rose around, the one 
named above, although less indicative of wealth, was by far 
the most striking, from its peculiarly beautiful situation. The 
old-fashioned piazza, which extended in front of the building, 
was shaded with vines and honeysuckle just budding into 
life ; the turf on the bank of the river was of the richest and 
brightest emerald, and the wild rose and sweetbriar, which 
twined over the neat enclosure, seemed to bloom with more 



156 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

delicate freshness and perfume within the bounds of this 
earthly paradise. It was May — the blue waves of the Sara- 
nac, so lately released from their icy bondage, bounded along 
with music and gladness, to meet and mingle with its parent 
lake; the fairy isles, so beautifully throned on its sparkling 
bosom, robed in all the rich luxuriance of spring, and the 
song of the birds floated forth on the balmy air like a strain 
of seraph melody. 

The proprietor of this lowly mansion was a gray-haired 
and respectable physician, whose life had been spent in 
toiling to mitigate the terrors of disease, and to obtain a sup- 
port for his lovely and delicate family. A few words may 
serve to describe a character so open and ingenuous, and a 
fate so common to dispositions like his. Early in life he 
evinced a studious and scientific turn of mind, and had 
seized upon the profession of medicine with all the earnest- 
ness of youth. Thirsting for knowledge, he plunged into 
its deepest waters, and, after a few years of unremitting 
study, entered upon life with a character of firm and unbend- 
ing integrity, and an almost childlike simplicity of manners 
and ignorance of the ways of the world. This was a dispo- 
sition illy calculated to gain wealth or even competence ; he 
knew not how to snatch the golden sands that lay within his 
grasp ; he could not be servile to the rich or tyrannical to 
the poor, and passed through life unblest with other riches 
than those of an approving conscience, and the tributes of 
respect and love from those whose welfare he had. promoted 
at the expense of his own. At the age of twenty-five he saw 
and loved a beautiful and high-spirited girl, and obeying the 
impulse of affection rather than the calm reasonings of 
prudence, he united her fortunes with his own, and settled 
down for life in this lowly and humble retreat we have vainly 
attempted to describe. At the time of our simple tale, he 
was far in the decline of life, but still performing his profes- 
sional duties. He found his happiness in promoting the 



REMAINS. 



157 



comfort of his family and enjoying the quiet pleasures of his 
cheerful fireside. The circle which had once closed around 
it was now sadly diminished by the inroads of death, but 
three lovely plants still clung by the side of their parent 
tree, and although one of these remaining blossoms seemed 
already fading from the eyes of her idolizing parents, 
there was much of pure and refined enjoyment in this lowly 
cottage, unknown in the haunts of wealth and worldly plea- 
sure. The two eldest children were sisters ; the one was 
seventeen, and the other had nearly attained her sixteenth 
year. Emily, the eldest, notwithstanding her youth, was 
the belle of the litlle village, and the life of her family 
circle. Her form and face might have been taken for the 
model of a Hebe — all health and gaiety — her complexion of 
pure red and white, had never been blanched by the cold 
touch of disease, and her smiling lip, with its childlike 
dimples, seemed bidding defiance to care and sorrow, with 
all their retinue of sighs, tears, and wrinkles ; her dark 
auburn hair curled in natural and tiny ringlets on her soft 
white neck and shoulders ; her full hazel eye wore an 
expression of habitual smiling archness, and her birdlike 
voice was for ever bursting forth in snatches of wild and 
untaught melody. Oh ! dearly did her father love, at the 
close of the long, weary day, to draw forth his beloved flute 
and practise some soul-stirring air, while the voice of the 
light-hearted maiden blent with its notes, and her feet danced 
lightly to its measure. Such was Emily, whose sprightli- 
ness and native good sense had rendered her the favourite 
of her father. 

But how shall I describe, in words, the high-souled, the 
almost ethereal Melanie? Oh ! that memory could paint on 
other tablets than on those of I lie heart ! Oh ! that we could 
transfer to lifeless paper the warm and glowing images which 
she has there implanted ! then might I picture that fragile 
form, which seemed every day fading into more spiritual 



158 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

fragility ; that broad, high brow, through which the bhie 
veins coursed like silken threads, so feeble and transparent; 
that veil of dark and luxuriant hair parted so meekly above 
it, and flowing, in long, waving tresses, on her neck; that 
cheek, now pale as the snow of December, now flushed with 
a hue too intense for health ; and that eye^ one moment 
melting with the warmest tears of earthly emotion, and the 
next, sparkling with the radiant light of angelic inspiration ! 
She seemed not "a being of the 79/-e5e?^^, all her confidence in 
the happiness of earth was buried with the past, and all her 
hopes of pure, exalted blessedness were merged in the vast 
future of eternity. Ardent and enthusiastic in her tempera- 
ment, she had loved. Highly and poetically imaginative, 
she had invested the object of her affection with the highest 
and most exalted qualities of our nature, and when stern, 
unbending truth dissolved those bright dreams of fancy in 
which she had lived and revelled — when she beheld in sober 
reality that he upon whom she had bestowed her affections 
was unworthy of the sacred trust, her mind received a shock 
only to be felt or imagined by a spirit like her own — gentle, 
confiding, and, at the same time, bearing within itself a 
standard of lofty honour, of pure sentiment, and high and 
heavenly virtue, by which she judged of the world around 
her, it was indeed an overwhelming blow ; but hers was not 
the mind to waste itself in fruitless repinings, and bury all its 
wealth of intellect and affection in the grave of one disap- 
pointed hope ; far from it ! U[)on its first short voyage on 
the cold waters of life, her little bark had been wrecked, and 
it now turned back to the quiet haven of home with a meek 
and gentle confidence, to bestow upon her family that love 
which was still treasured in her heart, and direct her powers 
of mind to higher and holier purposes than before. But if 
her spirit was strong in misfortune, her delicate frame par- 
took not of that strength : although the stream of affliction 
had passed over the fragile flower, it had planted in the pale 



REMAINS. 159 

blossom the germs of decay — she seemed a spirit in the home 
and with the friends of her childhood — she was ivith them, 
but not o/'them. The light faded from her eye, the buoyancy 
from her step, and her voice no longer mingled with the gay- 
hearted carols of her sister. Her hopes were now rested 
upon a firmer foundation than that of earth, and while she 
walked day by day more deeply into " the valley of the 
shadow of death," her soul and its pure and heavenly faith 
waxed brighter and brighter to the close. The dark mists of 
receding time seemed to blend with the brilliant fore-shadow- 
ings of a blessed eternity, and impart to her manners an 
habitual and subdued mournfulness, changed at times to the 
loftiest elevation, as she caught some unwonted flash from 
that far land of light towards which she was slowly and 
hopefully journeying. Her heart, with its warm and glow- 
ing tenderness, still clung to the beings of her early love, 
and when she saw how deeply they mourned her visible 
decline, with a sad sweetness she resumed her wonted 
avocations, though each word and act was tinged with the 
lofty and spiritual enthusiasm of her nature. If she read, 
her mind sought fitting aliment in the holy sublimity of Mil- 
ton, or the melancholy force and grandeur of Young; if she 
drew, faces and forms of aerial and unearthly beauty sprung 
from her pencil ; and if she sung, the wild and tremulous 
melody of her voice thrilled while it charmed the listener. 
She was dying ! For the brief space of sixteen years she 
had been a habitant of earth — she had tasted of its purest 
joy and its keenest sorrow, and now, with a calm and trust- 
ful earnestness, she was hastening to the home of the weary. 
Still there were deep and tender ties which bound her below. 
Her mother she adored ; her spirited and highly-gifted little 
brother she watched with a mother's fondness; the sister, 
the beautiful and light-hearted Emily, she loved with more 
than sisterly affection ; and her country, again threatened by 
the power of a foreign throne, while scarcely shadowed by 



160 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

the banner of its new-born freedom — her country, its strug- 
gles and its welfare, was still a theme of deep and engrossing 
interest. Such was Melanie Mentreville — such as far as 
language can imperfectly portray the lovely yet too un- 
earthly form unfolded to my " mind's eye," like an aerial 
vision — such the gentle yet elevated spirit which is mingling 
with every dream of fancy, and would fain embody itself in 
words. 

Those who seek in these few pages for a regular and 
eventful iate^ will rise disappointed from the perusal ; it is 
nothing more than a faint and imperfect sketch of sentiments 
and scenes which have long since passed away, with their 
actors, " to the dim burial isles of the past," and which, still 
living as vividly as ever in the ideal world of memory, I would 
once more introduce upon the stage of life as beings of real 
and actual existence. 

It was a glorious evening in May ; the sun was just retiring 
to his couch in the west, arrayed in all the splendid livery of 
a northern sunset; the groves of pine and elm upon the 
lake shore were bathed in his golden hue, and their tall 
shadows were reflected in the clear depths beneath ; the 
distant mountains of Vermont, which bounded the horizon, 
wore shrouded with a veil of dream-like glory blending 
shade by shade with the blue tints above, till heaven and 
earth seemed one ; and that heaven ! oh that pen could 
describe its calm and solemn magnificence ; the clouds of 
amber and gold, tinted and fringed with crimson, floating over 
the pure depths, moving as in sleep to their bright western 
home, while a rich blending of purple and green rose up from 
the horizon as if darting to meet them on their mid-career. 
It was at this glorious sunset hour that the two sisters had 
repaired to the piazza of their little cottage to breathe the 
invigorating air of spring ; and each to enjoy with their 
peculiar feelings the lovely and solemnizing influence of the 
scene. With the last ray of the golden sunlight playing over 



REMAINS. 



161 



her pale upraised features, Melanie stood beside one of the 
vine-wreathed columns, her head resting on her hand, and 
her full dark eyes bent earnestly upon the wild and purified 
drapery of the heavens, now fading into dinnness, now com- 
bining and bursting forth hues more gorgeous than before. 
Emily was bending over a rose-tree in the little enclosure, 
twining a fairy wreath of the wild sweet.briar, while the lively 
air which she almost unconsciously warbled, as if in unison 
with the character of the scene, died away in tones of plain- 
tive and tremulous sweetness. For a few moments the silence 
was unbroken, until Emily, springing lightly to her sister's 
side, exclaimed, while her fine features beamed with an expres- 
sion of affectionate gaiety, " How can you look so sad, 
Melanie, when all around us is breathing the very spirit of 
happiness? Do not the clouds you gaze upon make your 
heart feel light and airy as themselves? Will not these 
sweet flowers I have twined for you, impart something of 
their own hue to your cheek and your thoughts ?" 

Melanie gently took the wreath from her hand and replied, 
" You mistake me, sister, I am not sad — never perhaps did I 
experience a moment of more exquisite joy, for I thought, 
that ere those clouds had many times fleeted away to their 
bright home in the west, my freed spirit might soar above 
them and the great orb which imparts their brilliance ; to the 
source of all light, all love ; that ere those flowers had faded 
with the blasts of autumn, I might rest in that fair land, 
where flowers of undying bloom bathe for ever in the river 
of the waters of life ; where there is no more winter to chill 
the bright buds of nature, or the far more fragile blossoms of 
the heart." 

" Oh, Melanie ! Melanie !" said Emily, passing her arm 
around her sister's neck, and bursting into tears; "you will 
break my heart. Would you so gladly leave us all — father 
and mother, and me — and — " 

" No, no," replied Melanie, earnestly ; " but even though 



IQ2 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

you should see me no more, I feel, I know, that I shall 7iot i 
leave you, my own, my only sister. The thought may be a 
presumptuous one, but something within tells me that I shall 
see you, shall love you as dearly as now — perhaps, even be 
permitted to watch over and protect you, and oh, Emily, were 
not this happiness !" 

She replied only by a warmer pressure of the pale hand 
within her own, and borne away by the suggestions of her 
wild fancy, Melanie 'continued — \ 

" Yes, Emily, though this weak and wasted frame may be 
gone from among you, my spirit shall be with you; yours 
will be the blessed task of soothing the pillow of disease, when 
our beloved parents shall tread the pathway I have trodden ; 
but think not that Melanie, the child of their love, will be far 
from them in that parting hour — when you are in sorrow, my 
soul shall plead for you at the throne of eternal mercy — and 
when you are happy, my voice shall whisper in your soul of 
that Heavenly Father, from whose treasures of love cometh 
all happiness on earth, and all your hopes of blessedness in 
Heaven ! Do not weep, Emily, I shall love you all with a 
purer and holier love. My kind-hearted and ingenuous 
father, my high-souled, my beloved mother : you, my sweet 
blossom ; and you also, my noble little brother," she added, 
as the lovely boy bounded over the threshold, and she placed 
her hand caressingly on his long dark curls. 

" Oh! sister, sister!" cried Alfred with all the eagerness of 
boyhood, " oh ! the sights that I have seen to-day ! I have 
crossed the river in a canoe, and I have been up to the old fort, 
and I have seen the militia-men training, and the flags, and the 
drums, and the big cannon, and all! — didn't you hear it fire? 
Sister Emmy and Mr. Selden said I should be a soldier. Shall 
I not, dear sister?" and with a martial air the miniature hero 
strode up and down the piazza as if courting admiration. 

" Fie, Alfred !" replied Emily, to whose lip the smile had 
returned as before, " has the red coat and the gay epaulette 



REMAINS. 153 

charmed you so soon ? Remember, my little brother, that the 
life of a soldier is a hfe of hardship, and his employment a 
fierce and deadly one ; those glittering bayonets have made 
many a mother childless, and those gay cockades cover many 
a worthless or deceitful brain. No ! never be a soldier, Alfred." 

"Say not so, Emily," exclaimed Melanie; "though we now 
smile at the proud step and flashing eye of the mimic warrior, 
I can read his fate in them. If his life is spared, that sprightly 
and slender form will expand into the tall and athletic man, 
and the spark that is now warming into life his unfledged 
fancy, will strengthen into a glowing and unquenchable flame; 
and as it now prompts to those tones and gestures of mock 
defiance and command, it will lead him on to deeds of high 
and lofty daring. Yes I thou wilt be a soldier, my little 
Alfred — noble, generous, high-souled, and brave; all, all — " 
her voice trembled as she added, " all f once thought another." 

"Yes, I ivill be a soldier," echoed the youthful candidate 
for fame — "a brave and an honourable soldier;" and he 
bounded away through the open door, while the hall rang 
with his shouts. 

For a few moments Melanie stood with her hands clasped 
upon her bosom as if in mental prayer for the interesting boy 
whose fate she had prophesied ; and Emily seemed buried in 
deep revery, her head bowed, and her hand unconsciously 
pulling the leaves from a splendid moss rose, which was half 
concealed in her bosom. The silence was at length broken 
by the soft voice of Melanie. " Whence came that sweet rose, 
sister Emily? The maiden started from her revery, blushed 
deeply, and drew the bud from the folds of her handkerchief. 

"Forgive me, Melanie — I — Walter — Mr. Selden left it for 
you, and I — I forgot to give it you." 

A faint sweet smile passed over Melanie's delicate features 
as she replied—" Keep it, Emily; save as a proof of brotherly 
kindness, his gifts are valueless to me." 

Emily gazed upon the calm and gentle face before her with 



164 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

a mingled expression of doubt and joyful inquiry. " Do you 
not — tell me, dear sister^I fear it cannot be your heart belies 
your words f 

Melanie took her trembling hand in both her own and 
replied, while a shade of deep sadness mingled with the affec- 
tionate simplicity of her manner. 

" No, my beloved sister, you wrong me; what I say is the 
true, the only language of my heart. I will own to you that 
once had I known Walter Selden, I might have returned with 
ardour what I now view with pain as an unfortunate and 
misplaced attachment. You believe it not, Emily, but I am 
dying. Is it for me, whose every thought and hope should 
rest upon that world of spirits to which I am hastening, to 
twine my affections around an earthly idol ? Is it for me, 
whose wayward love hath once been crushed and blighted, to 
bid it arise Phoenix-like from the ashes of its destruction, with 
new hopes and new confidence ? And more than all, is it for 
me to encourage a visionary attachment, which would blast 
the hopes, the young affections of a sister dearer than life? 
Blush not, Emily; I have read the pure volume of your heart 
perhaps more clearly than yourself; I have long studied its 
pages with pain, yet not without a deep, strong hope for the 
future. When I am gone, Emily, his now ardent passion will 
be buried in my grave ; he will only remember me as a sad 
and pleasing vision; and as day by day that impression waxes 
fainter, he will behold the loveliness, the worth of your mind 
and person ; and although it is denied to me below, my 
rejoicing spirit shall behold the union of those two my heart 
loves best, my sister and my friend." 

Emily threw herself in tears upon the neck of her sister. 
'* Oh I Melanie, Melanie, my kind, my generous Melanie ! 
how can I believe that any one who has ever looked upon 
that bright, heavenly face, could ever cast one glance upon a 
simple, unideal child of earth like me." 

" And the loveliest of earth's creations," was Melanie's 



REMAINS. Ig5 

fond reply as she passed her hand over the silken ringlets and 
blushing cheek of the tearful nnaiden. 

A year had past by ; the flowers had again bloomed, and 
were again fading, and tinfie (as ever) had brought many a 
change upon his restless pinions. The little village of Plalts- 
burg still looked forth as sweetly from amid its groves and 
streams ; the Saranac flowed on with as glad a music ; the 
billows rolled as proudly on the broad bosom of Champlain, 
but armed fleets in all their dreadful array now rode upon its 
waters ; the voice of the distant cannon, echoed back from its 
shores, and martial music pealed long and loud through 
those once quiet abodes of peace. It was September, 1814, 
that year which commenced with bloodshed and dismay, and 
closed with a triumph that shall never fade from the annals 
of our history, while America hath a heart to warm with the 
glow of patriotism, or a voice to perpetuate the memory of 
the brave. Upon the tenth morning of this memorable month 
we would re-open the scene of our simple drama; a morning 
which rose upon our feeble band of intrepid patriots in doubt 
and anxiety, and inspired in the breasts of their numerous 
and well-regulated foes, new hopes, new confidence of vic- 
tory. Well might they look around upon that mighty and 
veteran host of fourteen thousand warriors, who had con- 
quered in Spain, France, and the Indies, and forward upon 
that weak but well-disciplined band of fifteen hundred, com- 
manded by the brave McCombe, and predict the triumph 
which, in all human probability, must necessarily ensue. 
After a long period of alternate success and defeat, the Bri- 
tish forces poured in their utmost strength upon the northern 
frontier, and determined, by a decisive attack upon the com- 
paratively unprotected village, to open a free passage into 
the heart of that country which they had laboured so long 
I and so fruitlessly to subdue. Their officers were men who 
sought in foreign victories a glory which should enrol their 



]gg MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

names for ever upon the pages of England's history ; they 
fought for distinctions, for titles, for wealth, and they knew 
not the force of a feeble arm, when directed and nerved by 
that holy patriotism which could toil and bleed, ere it would 
yield one single minutia of that independence bequeathed to 
them by the valour of their immortal sires. 

On the morning of the fifth, the land force, commanded by 
Sir George Prevost, had approached the village of Plattsburgh, 
and their fleet was prepared to make the attack by water at 
the same time that the army entered the town, and overcame 
the feeble resistance which it expected to meet. 

Meanwhile the village pi-esented a scene of deep and thrill- 
ing interest. The small force which remained after the de- 
parture of the American army for Lake Erie was collected 
by their gallant leader. General McCombe, in the tort Morvan, 
situated on the borders of the lake, a short distance from the 
banks of the Saranac. Here they had planted their cannon, 
and collected their means of defence ; here they were to con- 
quer, or if courage and skill proved vain, here they were to 
die. Guards and sentinels were posted at intervals along the 
streets, parties of volunteers were continually sallying forth 
to harass the enemy, and prepare themselves for the decisive 
struggle, and expresses were riding back and forth on their 
foaming steeds, shouting to the eager listener the position of 
the army, as it approached nearer and nearer, or hastening in 
silence to the fort to discharge some embassy of mi^htv and 
mysterious import. The greater part of the peaceful inhabi- 
tants had fled from the scene of bloodshed and commotion, 
and many a gun and bayonet were glittering in the windows 
of their peaceful dwellings, thus convened into barracks for 
the use of the soldiery, or hospitals for the wounded. 

The mists of the morning had just rolled from the bosom 
of the waters, and the sun, struggling through the dense 
clouds, had just kissed the light foam upon its surface, when 
a tall, manly youth was seen approaching the guards on the 



REMAINS. 167 

northern bank of the Saranac with a hurried, anxious, yet 
half-hesitating air. His form was slight and graceful in the 
extrenne, and the partly military dress which he wore dis- 
played to advantage its symmetry of proportion. He carried 
his long rifle in one hand, and a massive old-fashioned sword 
was fastened by an embroidered belt to his side ; his lips 
were firmly compressed, but his dark blue eyes were fixed 
upon the ground, as if some sad, subduing thought had min- 
gled with the sterner occupants of his mind. As he ap- 
proached the sentinels, each touched his cap in respect, and 
he passed on unquestioned, until pausing at the gate of Dr. 
Mentreville's cottage, he slowly and softly raised the latch ; 
a curtain was drawn aside, a pale face peeped from the win- 
dow, a light step was heard in the hall, and Emily stood upon 
the threshold. A year had wrought many changes in the 
person of this lovely girl ; her form was taller and more 
womanly, but had lost much of its roundness ; sorrow and 
midnight watching had faded the roses on her cheek, and 
tears had been its frequent visitants ; but her features, in 
their morning freshness and gorgeous bloom, had never 
seemed half so lovely. A flush sprang to her face, and a 
light to her eye, as she stepped forward to meet the stranger, 
and extended her hand with a frank and affecting simplicity. 
*' Walter !" — " Emily !" His heart seemed too full for ano- 
ther word, and he raised his eyes to hers with a look of sad 
and apprehensive inquiry. 

" Oh I do not ask me," she replied, bursting into tears. 
*' Oh ! that I could give you some gleam of comfort ; that I 
could lay down my worthless life for my sweet sister ! But 
it may not be, her frame grows hourly weaker, and her mind 
more strong ; she seems all soul— a. spirit of Heaven fettered 
by the strong affections of earth ; but yet, Walter," she added, 
wiping the blinding tears from her eyes, " when I look upon 
her I can scarcely find it in my heart to grieve ; she seems 
so placid and so happy, like an infant returning to the arms 



168 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of its parent : it is only when I look upon myself, and dear 
mother, and father, and you^ and think how lonely, how deso- 
late we shall be, that I feel the full weight of sorrow." 

" Desolate ! desolate indeed !" replied the young man, and 
unable longer to control his emotion he turned from her, and 
leaning bis head upon the little column where Melanie had 
so often rested, gave vent to his excited feelings in a flood of 
tears. But a moment, and it was over — he had paid his tri- 
bute upon the altar of sorrowing affection, and he awoke to i 
the remembrance of sterner and more pressing duties. 

" Forgive me, Emily !" — his cheek burning with shame at 
this transitory weakness — " surely the being for whose early 
fate I have shed these unmanly tears must form my best apo- 
logy ; yet I would not give way to sorrow upon a day like 
this, when every man should bring a cool head and a strong 
arm to the succour of his country." 

Emily's pale cheek turned yet more pallid, as she exclaimed, 
** Walter, do you — have you indeed joined yourself with those 
doomed men ?" and her eye rested on the sword and rifle, 
which she had not before perceived. 

" And have I not, Emily ? Would you, would Melanie 
own me as her — her friend? Would she not blush to hear 
my shame? Would not the blood of my grandsire, who 
fought so bravely in the Revolution, burn and scorch in the 
veins of his dastardly son, if I refused to join the brave band 
in defence of my native village, of my family, and of you, 
sweet Emily — and — and Melanie?" 

"And if you are defeated — " 

He smiled encouragingly. 

*' Why, theriy Emily, we must yield like men, only with 
our lives. But we shall not be defeated — we shall conquer I 
Brave hearts and determined hands will do more in the hour 
of conflict than close ranks and mere animal force." 

" And when is this dreadful hour to come? When do you 
expect the final attack ?" 



REMAINS. 169 

**I should be tempted to conceal it, little trembler," replied 
the youth, " did I not feel that I have already too long 
neglected the chief object of my visit. From the reports of 
the expresses and scouts who have returned, we expect the 
enemy to-morrow morning, when we shall probably be 
assailed by land and water. This place will be the scene of 
bloodshed and confusion: you cannot remain here — you must 
fly." 

"I know it, 1 know it!" exclaimed Emily; "father is 
already gone in search of waggons to convey our effects ; 
but my sister, my poor sister, it seems almost sacrilege to 
disturb and perhaps hasten her parting moments by this 
precipitation ; and the idea is so distressing, she longs so to 
die in her own old home. I can read it in every look, 
though she will not name it, lest we subject ourselves to 
danger for her sake. You know, Walter, we should have 
fled long since, as at the time of the former invasion, but 
ever since that short sojourn with strangers, she has seemed 
to fade more rapidly. It was breaking up all the sweet 
associations and habits which alone seem binding her to 
earth, and now, when she has so short a time to live, oh I it 
is a cruel, cruel task !" and the affectionate girl wept faster 
than before* 

" I feel it all, dear Emily," said Walter, " but were it not 
more cruel that her gentle spirit should part amid the roar 
of cannon and the shouts of the combatants? Then, if the 
British conquer, the last sounds which would meet her ear, 
would be those of insult and lawless triumph. No, no, it 
is impossible — you must fly. Would to God my duties did 
not call me for the space of two hours, that I might see you 
all in safety, and then return, with a light heart, to my post. 
But that cannot be ; by especial favour I have obtained leave 
to make you this hasty visit, and, upon my return, the band 
of volunteers which I have joined proceed to the bank above 
the old bridge, the station deemed most advantageous for 

12 



170 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

this section of our small force. So you see, dear Emily, I 
cannot aid you ; but you say your father is gone — where, 
and with what hopes of success f 

" He started before daylight this morning, to obtain a 
more easy conveyance for our dear invalid than our old- 
fashioned family vehicle affords, and waggons to convey the 
family and our most valuable effects; but you know calamity 
and terror makes us selfish, and the inhabitants having fled, 
he found not the proper means of conveyance for dear 
Melanie in the village, and he hastened on some ten or 
twelve miles in the country to obtain them, and we do not 
expect him to return until sunset." 

" Good heavens 1" exclaimed Walter, " the British forces 
will have advanced between him and our village, and he 
cannot return to you. Why did 1 not know this before?" 

Scarcely had he spoken, when Mrs. Mentreville appeared 
on the threshold of the open door, at the porch of which 
they had been conversing. Her figure was about the middle 
height and delicately formed, and her features retained the 
traces of much former beauty, but deep and unremitting 
anxiety had wasted a form naturally feeble, and an expres- 
sion of calm but unutterable grief was seated in her full dark 
eye. As she advanced, she caught the expression of alarm 
in the face of young Selden and her daughter, and after the 
first silent greeting was over she inquired, " What were you 
saying, Walter? Do not fear to tell me ; nothing can alarm 
me now." 

In brief words Walter repeated his apprehensions that her 
husband might be prevented from returning, and their flight 
would shortly become impossible. 

"Then we will remain," replied Mrs. Mentreville firmly. 
*' If we are successful, all is well ; if we fail, the British oflicers 
are gentlemen as well as soldiers — they have mothers, wives, 
and daughters — they will protect us. I only fear the effect 
of the excitement and turmoil upon our beloved sufferer." 



REMAINS. 171 

Walter sighed deeply. 

<* God will protect you, my dear madam. I wish / could 
trust more implicitly to the faith and honour of our enemies. 
But Dr. Mentreville may still return — all may yet be well. 
My term of absence is almost expired — can I not see Mela- 
nie?" and he lowered his voice almost to a whisper, as if he 
feared to breathe aloud a name so sacred. 

The mother replied not, but silently taking the hand of 
the young man, she led him into the chamber of the dying 
girl. It seemed not like the abode of death and disease. 
The spirit, trembling, hovering within its boundaries, ap- 
peared to sanctify its resting-place. There was no gloom, 
or darkness, or dreariness, for they found no place in the 
mind of Melanie, and why should they surround her frame 
without? She was all purity, gentleness, elevation — and an 
air of soft and soothing melancholy pervaded the scene of 
her last sufferings. The windows opening upon the river 
were closed, for there were sights and sounds of too ani- 
mating and warlike a nature to meet the acute eye or sensi- 
tive ear of the dying maiden ; but a casement beside her 
couch was thrown back, and the little flower-garden beneath 
it, which she had so often tended, sent up the perfume of its 
last fading blossoms into her chamber, while the quivering 
poplar-trees waved and sighed her requiem before it, and the 
luxuriant vines twined their small tendrils round the lattice. 
The sunlight, broken and softened by the green branches, 
fell in chastened splendour upon the floor, and tinged with a 
yet more heavenly radiance the pale, bright features of 
Melanie. The couch had been placed beside the open case- 
ment, that, as she reclined upon its pillows, she might yet 
look around upon the scenes so dear to her; and well do 
those who witnessed remember the unearthly loveliness of 
her form and face, and the alternate sadness — a glorious 
hope in its expression, as she bade a mental farewell to the 
cherished scenes of earth, or looked forward to the blessed 



172 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSOxV. 

home which she was seeking. There was one by her side 
who watched with unwearied care and childish simplicity 
every look and motion. It was the little Alfred. She dearly 
loved the ardent and enthusiastic boy, and his young heart 
clung with all its ardour and enthusiasm to the one who most 
deeply awakened and cherished the incipient romance of his 
nature. Now that he beheld her thus fading from before 
him, he hovered for ever by her bedside, and hung, like one 
entranced, upon each trembling accent of her voice. This 
deep and subdued affection had unlocked a new fountain in 
his little breast, and it flowed on, overwhelming all the petty 
selfishness of childhood, and quenching all save the flame of 
military ardour, which still burnt silently and slowly, though 
subdued by this new and overpowering sentiment of love for 
his gentle and intellectual sister. It was affecting to mark 
the struggle of these two passions in his young mind. At 
the sound of the distant cannon, the roll of the drum, or the 
shouting of the express as he rode furiously by, he would 
start from his seat, while his eye kindled, and his step 
involuntarily kept pace with the music; then, as the thought 
of Melanie rushed over his mind, he would turn to the bed, 
take her hand gently in his own little palm, and whisper 
softly, " Sister, did it disturb you 1" He was seated on his 
little stool by her side, cutting miniature soldiers from 
the little branches of a wild rose-tree, and watching every 
change in his sister's face, when Mrs. Mentreville, Emily, 
and Walter entered. Melanie raised her head from the 
pillow on which she reclined, and extended her hand feebly 
as Selden approached. 

"Walter, this is kind," said she; "I feared I should not 
see you before the engagement, and then we may never meet 
again." The youth spoke not, but kissed the pale hand 
which rested in his own. She continued : " I see that you 
have joined them, that you are going forth to add one more 
brave heart and arm to our adventurous band. I knew it. 



REMAINS. 173 

Go, Walter, go ! and my blessing and the blessing of God 
go with you. If you conquer, you will find your reward in 
that peace which you have fought to bestow ; if you fall, it 
will be in the performance of your duty, and you will share 
the grave of our bravest and best. Oh !" she added, clasp- 
ing her hands, and her eyes kindling with enthusiasm, " Oh ! 
that the shout of victory might be the last earthly sound 
wafted to my spirit as it seeks the portal of a brighter 
world ! With the voice of triumph floating around its path- 
way, how blessed might be its departure 1" There was a 
moment's deep silence ; every heart seemed too full for 
speech, till the soft, sweet voice of Melanie again fell, like a 
a bird whisper, upon the ears of the motionless group: 
" Walter, do not deceive me ; is it safe for my dear mother 
and sister to remain in this village, abandoned as it will be 
to the soldiery in case of defeat? God only knows how 
deeply I have longed to breathe my last in this dear home of 
my infancy, but for the love of mercy let not this idle fancy 
endanger the safety or comfort of those I love dearer than 
myself." Walter replied that it was deemed necessary to 
fly, and that her father had gone in search of the easiest 
means of conveyance for her. She sighed deeply. " My 
own dear father ! — But 1 shall not need him." Immediately 
rallying her spirits, while the faint sunlight smile, so peculiar 
to herself, played over her sunlight features, she again ex- 
tended her hand. " Let mc not detain you, Walter, from 
the performance of those duties which now devolve upon 
you. Go ! When I hear the shouts and tumult of the 
battle, I will pray for you, if on earth — I will watch over 
you, if released from its fetters. Oh ! do not look so sad ! 
If I saw not the mournful faces of those I love, my soul feels 
so happy I could almost think it Paradise. When I am 
gone, remember me as a dream, a moonlight vision which 
never formed itself into reality till it had fled ; as a being 
whose shadow has flitted over the past, whose life is only in 



174 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSOxN. 

the future. I have only two hopes, two wishes upon earth ; 
one for my country, the other — " She paused, and gazed 
fondly upon Walter and Emily as they stood beside her. 
The quick glance of Emily caught her meaning, and throw- 
ing herself upon Melanie's bosom she looked imploringly in 
her face. " Fear not, my sweet blossom,," whispered Me- 
lanie, " I cannot, will not say aught which you could wish 
unsaid." Then turning to Selden, she said, " Farewell ; may 
God protect and prosper you, my brother /" 

The tears rushed to the young man's eyes as he cast one 
long, mournful look upon the delicate and spiritual features, 
and kissed the small, wan fingers which he again pressed, but 
mastering his emotion with a strong effort, he turned from 
the room, and paused a moment in the hall, ere he could 
collect sufficient courage to leave the spot which contained a 
being so lovely (as he feared) yo/ eV(?r. As he stood thus, 
with his hand upon his brow and his eyes bent upon the 
floor, a slight noise behind him attracted his attention. He 
turned; it was little Alfred. He had stolen unperceived from 
the room, and was examining Walter's rifle with looks of 
earnest and admiring attention, and too much absorbed to be 
conscious of the owner's presence ; he was, in fancy, loading, 
presenting, firing, and performing all the military evolutions 
of which he was master ; when he at length perceived Walter, 
he sprang to his side, and raising his bright face exclaimed 
in an eager whisper — 

" Oh I Mr. Selden ! Mr. Selden ! take me with you to the 
battle; I will not trouble you ; I will load your gun, and I 
will take my little bow and arrow and fight as the Indians 
do ; and I will make the British run — do, do — take me !" 

"Will you not be afraid, my dear boy?" said Walter, 
scarcely conscious that he spoke. 

A smile of contempt curled the boy's red lip. 

"Afraid! what honourable soldier was ever afraid ?" and 
forgetting his caution one moment, ho laughed aloud. The 






REMAINS. 



175 



spark had been awakened in his little bosom, and it required 
all the soft dews of feeling and reflection to quench its flame. 

" Hush, hush, Alfred !" said Selden ; " would you leave 
your sister, your dear sister, and perhaps never see her 
more?" The boy looked down; his heart swelled, and his 
lip trembled; but his desire was still strong. "Your father 
is gone, and would you leave your mother and sisters defence- 
less? What will become of them if the British conquer?" 

Here was a double motive ; here were united the two ruling 
passions, and he clapped his hands in the eagerness of his 

joy- 

"Yes, yes, I will stay and protect them; and mother shall 
call me her little soldier, and sister Emmy will not be afraid, 
and no one shall touch dear Melanie." And he stole back 
contented to the stool by his sister's bedside, to indulge his 
young fancy in dreams of war, and victory, and defence. 

Waller departed ; and a short time after the sound of mar- 
tial music, of the drum and fife, and the trampling of many 
feet, disturbed the silence of Melanie's chamber. Mrs. Men- 
treville and Emily cast an anxious glance upon the apparently 
sleeping sufferer, and softly raised the curtain of the window. 
It was the band of volunteers marching out to their post. It 
was mostly composed of the young men of the village, led by 
an older and more experienced commander. Their hearts 
were beating high with hope and expectation, and they kept 
pace with a proud and even step to the lively national air 
which swelled in loud strains upon the breeze. As they 
passed the house of Dr. Mentreville, many an eye was turned, 
and many a glance fixed eagerly upon the beautiful face of 
Emily, as she leaned from the window ; but she knew it not, 
she saw, she thought of but one. The rest passed before her 
like a colourless picture, and she beheld the form of Walter 
Selden, vivid and distinct from the pageantry around him. 
His eye caught hers, fixed with such an earnest and speaking 
gaze upon his features. Then first flashed the truth like an 



176 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

electric spark through his mind — the idea that that young 
and guileless maiden might feel in him an interest dejeperthan 
that of a sister or a friend. A burning flush rose to his cheeks 
and brow ; he bowed low ; a while handkerchief fluttered from 
the window, and it was again closed. All had passed in an 
instant, but it was one of those wliich contained more of exis- 
tence than many a long, long year ; in that one look, unseen 
save by its object, the unconscious girl had betrayed the 
secret most dear, most sacred to her heart ; the one which 
she had fancied, had believed, no grief, no mental torture 
could force her to reveal. She turned from the window, hid 
her blushing face in her hands, and burst into tears. 

"Come hither, Emily," said Melanie, and opened her arms, 
while the weeping girl threw herself into them and sobbed 
upon her sister's bosom. Melanie clasped her hands over the 
silken tresses of the young mourner, and raised her head as in 
prayer. Oh ! that 1 had a purer pencil than those of earth 
to paint the forms, the expression, of those two lovely 
beings ! Some hovering angel might have transferred that 
scene to his immortal tablets, and laid it up among the 
records of heaven, as one bright spot shining forth from the 
dark annals of misery and crime. Emily, the type of all 
earth's loveliest, warm with its noblest passions, all the gene- 
rous impulses of youth, weeping upon the bosom of a dying 
sister ; and that sister, forgetful of herself, of all beside, 
praying for the dear one, while her face beamed with all the 
hallowed love, of the gentle compassion of a purified being, 
and her dark eyes kindled with a glow reflected only from 
the heaven they sought. The day rolled on, that long, long 
dreary day ; the village was still in the tumult of preparation ; 
the expresses rode by more furious than ever ; the British 
forces were rapidly approaching the village, but still the 
father, the husband came not, and fears for his safety mingled 
with the agony of his helf)less family. Mrs. Mentreville was 
a woman of acutely delicate and sensitive feelings, but they 



REMAINS. 



177 



were mastered and controlled by a firm judgment, a strong 
and independent mind. She had long seen, with that anguish 
which a mother only can know, the certain but gradual 
decline of her beloved Melanie. This child had been her 
favourite. There was something in the pure and lofty enthu- 
siasm of her character which touched a responsive chord in 
her own bosom. What others had never seen, or only 
marked as the idle fancies of a romantic girl, revealed to her 
the inmost recesses of a nature composed of deep sensibilities, 
quiet, unobtrusive affections, and lofty aspirations after some- 
thing higher and holier than earth. She had studied her 
carefully ; she loved her to idolatry, and she only who has 
nurtured, who has wept over the death-bed of such a child, 
can understand the bitterness of grief which converted her 
whole soul into a fountain of agony. She saw how deeply 
it distressed Melanie to behold her sorrow, and many an hour 
banished herself from her bedside, that spot most sacred upon 
earth, that she might drink unperceived from the darkness 
of her atHiction, and in solitude, and silence, struggle to 
subdue her heart into accordance with the will of her 
Heavenly Father. Night drew on ; the sky, which had been 
clear, became suddenly overcast; the sunbeams no longer 
played upon the quivering poplars, or sparkled gladly in the 
blue depths of the Saranac, and a dark thunder-gust rolled in 
black volumes from the west. The wing of the storm, as it 
slowly unfolded in the heavens, cast a deep leaden shadow on 
the waves of the Champlain ; and the white foam gathered 
upon the crest of each receding billow, as it rolled with an 
angry murmur to the shore. The thunder growled faintly in 
the distance ; pale flashes of light burst at intervals from the 
rent clouds, and large threatening drops fell with their sullen 
patter on the roof. Every thing betokened the approach of 
a fearful, though transient storm ; and a fervent prayer for 
the safety of her husband burst from the lips of Mrs. Men- 
treville, as she closed the door of the cottage and returned to 



178 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

the chamber of Melanie. As the tempest strengthened, the 
lightning streamed in with broad and livid flashes, and the 
thunder rolled on its tremendous pathway ; each crash more 
loud and terrific than the last. Mrs. Mentreville, seated on 
Melanie's couch, supported her head upon her bosom, and an 
expression of deep awe rested upon her pale features. Emily 
knelt by the bedside and concealed her face in its drapery, 
and even the stout heart of little Alfred quailed, as peal after 
peal burst and gleamed above them and around them. He 
lisped no word of fear, but grasped the hand of Melanie in 
his own, gazed wistfully upon her placid and spiritual features, 
as if something whispered within him that no danger could 
assail, no bolts from the artillery of heaven descend upon a 
form and soul so heavenly. No terror, no dread was on the 
face of Melanie; resting upon her mother's bosom, she gazed 
on the dark rolling masses of the tempest-cloud., and trembled 
not at the livid flames, or the pealings of the loud-voiced 
thunder; her soul seemed bursting from her eyes in one long 
gaze of solemn adoration ; her spirit was lifted above the 
warring elements ; it was casting its burden of deep and 
silent worship at the footstool of the Almighty, The storm 
for an instant paused : the thunder-peals died away in a low 
muttering growl, and an awful silence reigned in the heavens 
and on the earth ; the angel of the tempest had retired 'neath 
the veil of blackness, to gather the scattered thunderbolts in 
his hand, and to wreathe the winded li£[htnino;s on his brow. 
Again he came upon his wild career — on, on, in more terrific 
majesty ; the dark cloud parted with a fearful chasm, while 
from its bosom poured a sheet of flame, broad, livid, terrible, 
and a fierce crash, as of a shattered world, pealed along 
the heavens. A low shriek burst from the lips of Emily, and 
Alfred pressed his sister's hand with a convulsive energy. 
The grasp recalled Melanie's wandering senses ; she drew 
him closer to her bosom, and whispered in accents low but 
distinct, heard like an anirel's murmur amid the roarin<r of the 



% 



REMAINS. 179 

storm, "Fear not, my little brother; it is the same voice which 
breathes in melody among the flowers of spring; the same 
hand which paints the rainbow and the rose. Fear not, it is 
your Father and your God ! He sendeth forth the spirit of 
his love, and heaven and earth are bathed in the fountain of 
its glory ; hestretcheth out the arm of his power, and the hills 
tremble and are shaken. Yea," she added, clasping her 
hands and looking upwards with an expression of fervent 
solemnity, "yea; thou only art great who coverest thyself 
with light as with a garment; who stretchest out the heavens 
like a curtain ; who makes the clouds thy chariot ; who 
walkest upon the wings of the wind." 

It was midnight. The storm had departed as it came ; the 
wind sighed mournfully, yet sweet amid the dripping branches ; 
the black masses rolled from the firmament, and the moon, 
struggling through their gloom, cast her feeble and trembling 
beams on the still agitated waters ; the waves rose and fell 
with a faint wailing murmur, like the sobs of a weeping child ; 
and the hearts of the anxious mourners seemed to beat in 
nnison with their sad cadence. A taper was burning on the 
hearlh in Melanie's chamber, but the curtain was withdrawn, 
and the pure cold rays of the moon trembled faintly upon a 
being, pure and heavenly as themselves. She slept — in the 
hush of that midnight hour, surrounded by those best loved 
on earth, she slept. Oh ! the peace, tiie uneatthly beauty of 
that sleep. Her head lay back upon the pillow, her bright 
dark hair shaded with its rich tresses the exquisite features 
of her face ; the serenity of heaven seemed resting on her 
broad, pale brow ; her dark eyelids lay motionless on their 
snowy pillow, and nought could reveal to the beholder that 
he gazed on an inhabitant of earth, save the brilliant flush 
which mantled upon her gheek, as if death, fearing utterly to 
destroy a work so beautiful, had breathed a deeper crimson 
on the fresh rose of health, and placed it 'mid the lilies of 
disease. Emily was kneeling beside her, her face bathed in 



180 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

tears, and her eyes now bent with a wistful sadness upon her' 
sleeping sister, now raised as in prayer to Heaven ; a petition I 
seemed trembling upon her lips, but it would wing its way no 
farther ; she dared not pray for fetters to enchain the strug- 
gling spirit ; she could not even wish to recall the fluttering 
prisoner to its cage of clay, and the prayer died unuttered on 
her tongue. Then her mind wandered far away from that 
shaded room and its midnight stillness. She saw the morn- 
ing dawn above the opposing ranks ; she heard the shouts of 
the commanders, the sharp report of the rifles, and the deaf--. 
ening roar of the cannon, and she saw one form amid thej 
thousands, and, as when she last beheld it, she saw that form . 
alo7ie ; she marked his every movement, and when her quick 
fancy beheld the " leaden death" flying around him, her breath 
was checked convulsively, and the colour went and came 
upon her cheek, and then, with the swiftness and wayward- 
ness of thought, her mind returned to their last meeting, their ' 
last look; and her face became one burning flush when she: 
thought how much, how all too much that look had betrayed. . 
As she raised her head from the counterpane in which it had 1 
been buried, her eyes again rested upon the features of Mela- 
nie, and still more deeply did she blush at her own selfishness 
in thinking of aught beside the cherished sufferer and the duty 
she owed to her beloved mother. Where was that mother 
now? Why was not she too bending over the slumbers of 
the dying one? Oh ! had you asked her bleeding heart, an 
answer had been poured forth in tones of the bitterest agony 
which the hand of sorrow could draw forth from its broken 
strings. Grief — grief, too deep for utterance, too violent for 
restraint, had driven her from the bedside of Melanie. With 
a burning brain and throbbing nerves, she had stolen unno- 
ticed from the side of Emily, and stepped forth upon the broad 
piazza, to breathe for one moment the coolness of the n)id- 
night air ; it soothed, it refreshed her, and throwing herself 
upon the seat beneath Melanie's window, a burst of tears re- 



p REMAINS. IQl 

lieved her agitated feelings. The scene was solemn, and to 
the reflecting mind it was one of deep interest, for the shade 
of an eventful morrow seemed hanging darkly over it ; torches 
were glancing to and fro in the distant fort; boats were cross- 
ing and recrossing the river ; the bridges were destroyed, and 
the voice of the sentinel was heard at intervals, as he loudly 
demanded the countersign from some belated traveller. In 
addition to her other cares, Mrs. Mentreville was now seri- 
ously alarmed for the safety of her husband : at every casual 
footstep, at every shadow which obscured the moonlight, she 
started from her seat, and an anxious, " is it he ?" trembled 
unconsciously upon her lips. In the silent solemnity of that 
midnight hour her mind reverted to her own early days, 
when loving and beloved, she had first entered that humble 
cottage, a youthful and happy ivife, and when after the lapse 
of years she had still found herself an adored and cherished 
mother, the centre of all the social affections, ihe parent tree 
which shadowed, nourished, and supported the fresh young 
tendrils that twined around it; nmv there was a deep, deep 
void within her heart. Death had breathed upon her para- 
dise ; he had laid his cold hand upon those delicate vines; he 
had torn them asunder; had gathered all but three young 
blossoms to twine around and wither on his clay-cold brow. 
Her affection for the dead was now transferred with tenfold 
ardour to the living ; the buoyancy of youth and hope were 
gone, but love, a mother's love, can never perish, and her 
spirit, chastened and subdued by the hand of affliction, clung 
to Melanie as to some guardian angel, some being of superior 
imould, who seemed unfitted for the cares and buffetings of 
life, and yet foreboding fancy had never dared to whisper 
she could die; and now the dreadful summons had arrived; 
she saw it in the flushed and fevered cheek, the throbbing 
pulse, the eye of piercing brilliancy ; she heard it in the low 
[tremulous accents of her beloved one, — they mingled all the 



1Q2 ^J^SS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

sweetness of heaven, and all the sadness of earth ; and the 
memory of those tones stole over her mind like a soothing 
murmur, as she buried her face in her hands, and the tears 
stole silently between them. She was startled from her revery 
by a sound like the distant trampling of horses' feet; she 
turned — the sound came nearer — " It is he !" and she rushed 
down the steps of the piazza, and with her hand upon the 
gate leaned anxiously ON'er the little enclosure. She scarcely 
breathed. It was a horseman riding furiously down the little 
hill to the right, and as he passei in the moonlight, hope could 
deceive her no longer; it was not he, it was the express; he 
dashed along through the row of sentinels, and waving his 
cap in the air, his hoarse voice broke painfully upon the 
silence of the night. 

" The enemy ! the enemy !" he shouted, " they have come 
on by forced marches ; they are now encamped within two 
miles; they will be here by daybreak," and he dashed on, 
arousing the sleeping echoes, till the trampling of his horse's 
feet, and the tones of his stentorian voice were alike lost in 
the distance. Mrs. Mentreville slowly and mechanically re- 
turned to the piazza, and a thousand agonizing thoughts 
swept like a burning torrent through her brain. The British 
army was rapidly approaching; the conflict would probably 
take plac& at daybreak ; her husband had gone to secure 
them a place of refuge, but he returned not ; perhaps he was 
a prisoner in the British camp, and she, a helpless woman, 
with one young and timid daughter, and one, so dear a one, 
just dying, was left alone in the deserted village, exposed to 
the cruel insults of the British soldiery, should they conquer, 
and to all the terror and tumult of a desperate conflict even 
should they fail. Oh ! that was a night of agony, and never, 
through all the vicissitudes of after life, did one thought, one 
feeling then endured fade from the volume of her memory. 
As the thoughts of danger and the necessity of exertion passed 



RExMAINS. 



183 



through her mind, she wiped the tears from her eyes, and 
whispered within herself, "This weakness will not do; I 
have a part to perform. I am the only guardian of my three 
dear ones; we cannot fly, and if the British conquer, as I 
fear ihey must, I will appeal for protection to their officers ! 
they have wives and children. * * # 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

Mother ! thou bidd'st me touch the lyre, 
And wake its sweetest tones for thee ; 

To kindle fancy's dying fire, 
And light the torch of poetry. 

Mother ! how sweet the word, how pure, 
As if from heaven the accents came ; 

If aught can rouse the dormant soul, 
It is that cherish'd, honour'd name. 

Deep in the heart's recess it dwells ; 
• It lives with being's earliest dawn ; 
With reason's light expands and swells. 
And dies with parting life alone. 

Mother ! 'tis childhood's first essay, 
Breathed in its trembling tones of love ; 

It lights the heart, through life's long way. 
And points to holier worlds above ! 

It is a name, whose mighty spell 

Can draw the chain'd affections forth, 

Can rouse the feelings from their cell, 
And give each purer impulse birth. 
13 



186 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Then will I wake my sleeping muse, 
And strive to breathe my thoughts in song, 

Though sweetest strains must fail to speak 
The heart's affections, deep and strong. 



PRIDE AND MODESTY. 

Just where a wild and rapid stream 
Roll'd back its waves in seeming pride, 

Flowers of each softly varying hue 
Were sweetly blooming, side by side. 

Shaded by many a bending tree. 
Their glowing cups with dew-drops fiU'd, 

Nature's fair daughters blushing stood. 
And all their fragrant sweets distill'd. 

Oh, 'twas a wild and lovely spot, 

Which well might seem a spirit's home ! 

A lone retreat, a noiseless grot. 

Where earth's rude blasts could never come. 

Within a broad and open glade, 

A tulip spread its gaudy hue. 
While, 'neath the myrtle's clustering shade, 

A sweetly-drooping lily grew. 

As the light zephyrs o'er them swept. 
And heighten'd many a rosy glow, 

A strange, deep murmur round them crept, 
Like distant music, wild and low. 

'Twas the gay tulip's fragrant breath. 
Which many an answering echo woke. 

As to her lowly neighbour, thus, 

With proud and haughty mien, she spoke : 



POETICAL REMAINS. 187 

" Away ! frail trembling flower ! nor dare 

To droop beside my glittering form ! 
Behold how bright my garments are, 

And mark each sweetly varying charm ! 

" Then hie thee to some lonely nook, 

Nor show thy pallid features here ; 
Go, murmur to some babbling brook, 

Where like thyself each scene is drear ! 

" Hast thou assurance thus to gaze 

On one who nature's self beguiles 1 
Hence ! haste thee hence ! and hide that face, 

Where parent nature never smiles." 

She ceased — a sad, sweet whisper rose. 
Which thrill'd the zephyrs list'ning ear; 

Soft as an angel's gentlest tone. 

Too heavenly for this mortal sphere. 

'Twas the pale lily's silvery voice, 

Which rose in low and thrilling tone. 
Like breath of wild Eolian lyre. 

Moved by the wind-god's tenderest moan : 

" Great queen !" the lovely gem replied, 
" I view thy charms, I own their power. 

And void of envy, shame, or pride. 
Admire thy beauties of an hour. 

" Full well 1 know my pallid brow 

Can never match the hues of thine ; 
Nor my white robes the colours wear. 

Which on thy dazzling garments shine. 

" But the same hand hath form'd us both ; 

And heaven-born nature smiled as sweet 
As on thy form, when the low flower 

Was peeping from its green retreat. 



188 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" Here was I planted ! let me here 
Still live in purity and peace ; 

The lily's eye shall never weep 
To gain the tulip's gaudy grace. 

"But oh, forget not, 'mid the pomp 
Of earthly kingdom, pride, and joy, 

That boasted beauty must decay, 

And withering age thy pleasures cloy. 

" Receive the lily's kind advice, — 
Retire from scenes of public life, 

And pass thy days in solitude, 
Apart from vanity and strife." 

While the sweet murmur past away, 
The stately rose as umpire came ; 

The lily shunn'd her proud survey. 
The lordly tulip bent for shame. 

In accents bland, but nobly firm. 

The queen-like flow'ret soon replied, 

In tones which charm'd the tender flower. 
And humbled more the tulip's pride. 

" Come hither, pure and lovely one. 
With thee no garden plant can vie ; 

Not e'en the tulip's gaudy hues 

Match with thy stainless, spotless dye. 

" Come to my bosom, emblem fair 
Of heavenly virtue's fairer form ! 

Here let me learn each modest grace. 
While here I hush each wild alarm. 

" Come to my bosom ! what so pure. 

So lovely as a modest one, 
Who flies from folly's glittering lure. 

And shuns the bright meridian sun ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 199 

" Let the proud tulip glitter still, 

Robed in her scarf of varying hue ; 
Alone 'neath nature's eye we'll rest, 

Cheer'd by her smile, and nurtured by her dew." 



VERSIFICATION OF THE TWENTY-THIRD 
PSALM. 

My shepherd is the faithful Lord, 
I shall not want, I trust his word; 
He lays me down in pastures green, 
He leads me by the lake serene ; 
Comforts my soul, and points me on 
To pure religion's holy shrine. 

I wander through the vale of death, 

Yet he supports me still ; 
He will receive my dying breath 

If I perform his will 

Even in the presence of my foes 
He doth a meal of plenty spread ; 

My cup with blessings overflows, 
With oil he does anoint my head. 



1831. 



TO BROTHER L . 

The vessel lightly skims the wave, 
And bounds across the waters blue. 

Near shores where trees luxuriant spread, 
And roses wildly blooming grew. 



190 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Yon islands see ! so fair and bright, 
Like gems upon the azure sea ; 

The waters dance like forms of light, 
And waft my brother dear from me. 

1831. 



FOR MAMMA. 

The rippling stream serenely glides, 
And rising meets the swelling tides ; 
The fleeting lights of heaven around 
Shine brightly o'er the vast profound. 

The moon hath hid her silvery face, 
So mark'd with beauty and with grace, 
Majestic when she rides on high, 
A gem upon the azure sky ! 

My thoughts, oh Lord, then turn to thee, 
Of what thou art and I shall be ; 
Thy outstretch'd wings around me spread 
And guard with love my helpless head. 



1831. 



TO MAMMA. 

Farewell, dear mother, for awhile 
I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
And joys unceasing round thee flow. 

May the almighty Father spread 
His sheltering wings above thy head. 
It is not long that we must part, 
Then cheer thy downcast, drooping heart. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 191 

Remember, oh remember me, 
Unceasing- is my love for thee ! 
When death shall sever earthly ties. 
When thy loved form all senseless lies, 

Oh that my soul with thine could flee, 
And roam through wide eternity ; 
Could tread with thee the courts of heaven, 
And count the brilliant stars of even. 

Farewell, dear mother, for awhile 
I must resign thy plaintive smile ; 
May angels watch thy couch of wo, 
And joys unceasing round thee flow. 



1831. 



« TO A FLOWER. 

The blighting hand of winter 

Has laid thy glories low ; 
Oh, where is all thy beauty 1 

Where is thy freshness now 1 

Summer has pass'd away. 

With every smiling scene, 
And nature in decay 

Assumes a mournful mien. 

How like adversity's rude blast 

Upon the helpless one, 
When hope's gay visions all have pass'd, 

And to oblivion gone. 

Yet winter has some beauties left;, 
Which cheer my heart forlorn ; 

Nature is not of charms bereft, 
Though shrouded by the storm. 



192 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

I see the sparkling snow ; 

I view the mountain tops ; 
I mark the frozen lake below, 

Or the dark rugged rocks. 

How truly grand the scene ! 

The giant trees are bare, 
No fertile meadows intervene, 

No hillocks fresh and fair ; 

But the cloud-capp'd mountains rise, 
Crown'd with purest whiteness, 

And mingle with the skies, 

That shine with azure brightness. 

And solitude, that friend so dear 
To each reflecting mind. 

Her residence has chosen here 
To soothe the heart refined. 

1831. 



STANZAS. 



Roll on, roll on, bright orb of day ; 

Roll on, thou beauteous queen of even ; 
Ye stars, that ever twinkling play, 

And sweetly grace the azure heaven, 

Roll on, until thy God's command 

Shall rend the sky and tear the earth ; 

Till he stretch forth his mighty hand 
To check the voice of joyous mirth. 

He spread the heavens as a scroll. 

He made the sea, he form'd the world ; 

The heavens again shall backward roll, 
And mountains from their base be hurl'd. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 193 

He form'd the lovely verdant green, 
And aught of fair that e'er has been ; 
These beauties all shall pass away, 
And in one shapeless ruin lay. 

But God in his glory, the God of the sky, 
Will continue through endless eternity ; 
For ever untainted, all holy and pure. 
His love and his mercy shall ever endure. 



1831. 



ESSAY ON NATURE. 

How just, how pure, how holy is the great Creator of 
the universe ! When I gaze upon all the wonders of 
nature, the rippling stream, the distant mountain, the 
rugged rock, or the gently sloping hill, my mind turns 
to the first Great Cause of all ; the Author of this min- 
gled beauty, grandeur, and simplicity. God made this 
beautiful world for us, that we might be happy, and 
why are we not so ? Becausfe we do not seek real hap- 
piness. We are striving to obtain ivorldly pleasure ; but 
what is that^ compared with the happiness of a child of 
God ? He feels and knows that his Saviour is ever dear ; 
he weeps over his past follies with a sweet consciousness 
that they are all forgiven ; that the kind Shepherd has 
brought back his lost sheep to the fold. He trusts in the 
goodness of his Creator. His faith is firm in the blessed 
Saviour who died for him ; he has charity for all^ love 
for all. Such is the Christian I His earthly sorrows 
seem light, for his thoughts are continually upon his just 
Preserver. What is man, frail, feeble man, but a flower 



194 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

of the field, that fades away with the rude blast of the 
autumnal storm. How infinite the love which sustains 
him ! 

Plattsburgh, 1832. 



VERSES WRITTEN WHEN NINE YEARS OF AGE. 
HOME. 

Yonder orb of dazzling light 

Sinks beneath the robe of night, 

And the moon so sweetly pale, 

Waits to lift her silver veil. 

One by one the stars appear, 

Glittering in the heavenly sphere. 

And sparkling in their bright array. 

Welcome in the close of day. 

But home, that sacred, pure retreat, 

Where dwells my heart in all that's sweet. 

And my own stream, where oft I've stray'd, 

And mark'd the beams that o'er it play'd. 

Is far away, o'er the waters blue, 

Far from my fondly straining view, 

1832. 



THE MAJESTY OF GOD. 

With the lightning his throne, and *he thunder his voice. 

He rides through the troubled sky ; 
He bids all his angels in heaven rejoice. 

And thunders his wrath from on high ! 
" On the wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly rides," 
O'er the heavens, the earth, and the ocean he strides ; 
The breath of his nostrils the lightning's flame. 
All nature re-echoes his powerful name ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 195 



FROM THE FORTY-SECOND PSALM. 

Why is my bosom fill'd with fear, 

And why cast down my troubled soul 1 

Is not thy God, thy Saviour near, 
And will he not thy fate control 1 

How mighty is my Saviour's hand, 

How powerful his word, 
And how can I, a sinful worm, 

Address him as my Lord 1 

Jehovah sends his mighty breath 

Across the placid sea ; 
The foaming waters proudly whirl, 

As longing to be free. 

Deep calleth unto deep aloud, 
The raging billows follow thee ; 

Thou send'st the roaring waves abroad, 
Which rush o'erwhelming over me. 

Yet at the great I Am's command, 

For me, the object of his care. 
The shouting waters silent stand ; 

He still shall listen to my prayer. 



1833. 



HYMN OF THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

Welcome, oh welcome, god of day ! 

Thy presence gives us peace ! 
All hail, eternal, glorious king. 

Thy light shall never cease ! 



196 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Transcendent Sun ! oh list to one 
Whose heart is fill'd with love ; 

Let the sweet airs lift high our prayers 
To thee our God above. 

Pure orb of light ! resplendent, bright ; 

Oh, who may cope with thee 1 
And who may dare to view thee there, 

And never bend the knee 1 

Before thy ray the guilty flee. 

And dread thy cheerful beam, 
Lest thy fierce eye their crimes descry, 

And chill hope's trembling gleam. 

To thee we bow, for on thy brow 

Is majesty impress'd, 
Glory thy shroud, thy throne the cloud, 

Which circles o'er thy breast. 

The blushing flower will own thy power ; 

It blooms alone for thee ; 
And though so frail, oh hear my wail, 

My blessed guardian be ! 

When the first ray of brilliant day 

Illumfes the hill, the plain. 
The songsters raise a hymn of praise, 

Oh, listen to my strain. 

When thy loved form, which braves the storm, 

In ocean disappears, 
One mournful cry ascends on high, 

The night is spent in tears. 

But lest we mourn for thy return. 

And pine away in grief, 
The orb of night supplies thy light, 

And gives us sweet relief. 



POETICAL REMAINS. I97 

Then on my head, Eternal ! shed 

Thy warmest, purest beam, 
And to my heart content impart, 

With gratitude serene. 

Then, when at last, my sorrows past, 

With thee in light I'll roam. 
And by thy side securely ride, 

Thy bosom for my home. 



1833. 



ENIGMA. 



Sometimes I grace the maiden's brow, 
And lend her cheek a brighter glow ; 
Or grim and strong, secure the wall 
Of many a castle gate from all. 
The palace boasts me always there, 
To guard the walls and bless the fair ; 
The meanest cot I ne'er disdain, 
Yet guard the portals of the brain. — Lock. 



TO A LITTLE COUSIN AT CHRISTMAS. 

My dear little Georgie, oh did you but know 

How delighted I'd be could I meet with you now ; 

Oh could I but print on your forehead a kiss, 

To thy Margaret the moment were unalloy'd bliss. 

Thy flowers and acorns I've cherish'd with care. 

And to me they have seem'd more than lovely and fair ; 

For thoughts of the friends I have left far behind, 

And sweet recollections will crowd on my mind. 

As I gaze on the tokens presented by you. 

And the sweet little letter you've written me too ; 



198 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

I fancy I see thee on bright Christmas day, 
With Kitty and mother all sportive at play, 
Admiring- the bounty St. Nicholas gave 
To the boy who was worthy his counsels so grave. 
Oh could I but join thee, my beautiful boy, 
In thy holiday pastimes and innocent joy ! 
Is " Aunty" still working on bonnets and capes, 
Or examining flowers of all sizes and shapes 1 
Does Aikin's Collection still lie on her lap. 
While her fingers are plaiting some ruffle or cap 1 
Is thy " dear little mother" still lively and gay, 
Pleasing and pleased, as when I came away 1 
And Annie, and Kitty, and grandfather too 1 — 
But 'tis time, my dear Georgie, I bade you adieu. 
Tell uncle, and brother, and all whom I love, 
My letters alone my affection must prove. 

1833. 



ON READING CHILDE HAROLD. 

The rainbow's bright and varying hue, 
Mix'd with the sofl celestial blue. 
The brightest, fairest stars of night. 
Which shed their radiance pure and bright, 
If mingled in a wreath, would be 
Too poor an offering for thee. 

The morning sun should deck thy brow. 
Now dazzling bright, and softening now ; 
But night's dark veil too ofl doth cloud 
The brow which genius should enshroud, 
For vice has set her impress there, 
Mingled with virtues pure and fair. 



1833. 



POETICAL REMAINS. jgg 



INVOCATION. 



Oh, thou almighty Lord of heaven and earth ! 
From whom the world and man derive their birth, 
My youthful heart with sacred love inspire, 
And fill my soul with wild poetic fire. 

And oh, thou pure, transcendent muse of heaven. 
Descend upon an airy cloud of even. 
With thy bright fingers touch the trembling chord. 
And let it echo to my Saviour, Lord. 

1833. 



CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

Hail to salvation's brilliant morn. 
Hail to the dawn of joy and peace. 

When God's supreme, almighty power, 
Bade all our pains and sorrows cease. 

Ye angels, sing your sweetest songs. 
And strike anew each golden lyre ; 

Let him to whom the praise belongs 
The sacred strain inspire. 

This day the star of promise shone 

Bright in yon eastern sky. 
It bore redemption in its light, 

A herald from on high. 

It led a wise and chosen band. 

Who writhed beneath the rod 
Of Herod's proud and kingly hand, 
• To seek their infant God. 



200 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

From his high throne in realms of bliss, 
Where love was in every breast, 

From his glorious home he came to this. 
And in his descent we are blest. 

For man's unconquerable pride, 
That we salvation might obtain. 

This blessed Saviour bled and died, — 
And has the sacrifice been vain. 

Oh Jesus, fiU'd with sacred fire. 
May I devote this life to thee ; 

May love my youthful heart inspire. 
And glow to all eternity. 

1833. 



EVENING. 



^TwAS evening, and the sun's last ray 
Was beaming o'er the azure sky ; 

Earth bade farewell to cheerful day, 

Which sinks beneath the mountains high. 

Those cloud-tipp'd mountains soar'd afar 

In that bright heaven of blue. 
And seem'd to reach yon eastern star. 

Which glittering you might view. 

Between its banks yon rippling stream 

Unruffled glides along, 
In curling eddies onward flew 

Rocks, branches, trees among. 

Beyond it raged the troubled sea. 

Which threw aloft its wave. 
And ever furious, ever dark. 

The sky it seem'd to brave. 



POETICAL REMAINS. goj 

How strangely, sweetly blended there 

The beautiful and grand, 
The awful with the prospect fair, 

The terrible and bland I 

Behold that tall, majestic rock, 

O'erhanging yonder stream ; 
See, at its frowning foot is seen 

The pale moon's silvery beam. 



1833. 



ENIGMA. 



In nature it holds a conspicuous part, 
It lives in the ocean, and softens the heart ; 
The supporter of angels, in heaven it dwells, 
And the number of demons reluctantly swells. 
'Tis a part of our faith, and it lives with the dead, 
'Tis devoid of religion, yet always in dread ; 
In the wavering candle all brightly it glows, 
And with the meandering streamlet it flows. 
Without it the name of the warrior were lost, 
And the seaman would sink, on the wide ocean tost. 
And now, my dear friend, if you guess what it means, 
You may have the enigma for nought but your pains. 

1833. 



TO THE DEITY. 

Almighty God ! Father of heaven and earth, 
Who form'd, from 'midst the vast expanse of chaos, 
This spacious world — omnipotent and holy ! 
Before thee angels bow ! — the countless host 
Of those that praise thee, and that hover round 
14 



202 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Thy sacred throne, shrink from the blaze of light, 

And shadow with their wings their beaming brows, 

Lest, on their senses thy transcendent glories 

Burst with a stunning power, and absorb them 

In one full flood of brilliance. 

Oh thou ! whose ever-seeing eye can pierce 

The misty shades of night, and penetrate 

The deep recesses of the human heart ; 

Parent of earth ! how glorious are thy works ! 

Look on yon orb, whose ever-open eye 

Sheds at his glance a pure, resplendent light, 

Dispensing good. Night throws her sable veil 

O'er hill and rock, o'er rivulet and ocean : 

Then chaste Diana sheds her silver ray 

O'er all : her throne, the fleecy cloud that floats 

Over the vast expanse of heaven above us ; 

Her bright attendants are the brilliant stars. 

That seem like guardian angels, who attend, 

In virgin purity, to keep from ill 

Our ever-rolling orb : beauty reigns over all. 

And tinges nature with her softest touch. 

If scenery so bright as this be here^ 

Oh, how can fancy paint the joys of heaven, 

That pure and holy place, region of bliss ! 

There glides an amber stream, diffusing sweets, 

And every tiny wave, which o'er the sands 

Of purest gold rolls backward, washes up 

Some pearl or diamond, gem of dazzling beauty, 

While ambrosial zephyrs fan the air. 

See, yonder angel, resting on the cloud, 

His beaming eye upturn'd with holy awe. 

Oh list ! he chaunts his great Creator's praise ; 

His golden harp is never hush'd by wo ; 

There music holds her sweet, harmonious reign. 

How pure the being who calls forth that lay : 

Such clear, melodious symphony 

Might well awake the dead from their last sleep. 



1833. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 205 



TO MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

Though thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb, 

Like the flovv'ret, which droops in its verdure and bloom ; 

Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain, 

And thy strains will ne'er waken their echoes again ; 

Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide ; 

Still, still, thou art ours and America's pride. 

Sing on thou pure seraph, with harmony crown'd, 

O'er the broad arch of heaven thy notes shall resound. 

And pour the full tide of thy music along, 

While a bright choir of angels re-echoes the song. 

The pure elevation which beam'd from thine eye, 

As it turn'd to its home, in yon fair azure sky. 

Told of something unearthly, — it shone with the light 

Of pure inspiration and holy delight. 

" Round the rose that is wither'd a fragrance remains, 

O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns." 

Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave, 

And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave, 

But thy spirit has mounted to regions on high, 

To the throne of its God, where it never can die. 



1833. 



WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN ELEVEN AND TWELVE. 

PROPHECY. 

Fair mortal, I linger to tell thee thy fate. 
Like an angel above thy bright fortunes I wait : 
Thy heart is a mixture of tender and sweet, 
And thy bosom is virtue's own sacred retreat. 
Simplicity soft and affection combine 
To render thee lovely and almost divine. 



204 ^"SS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Devoid of ambition, rest, dear one, secure, 

For with thoughts so refined, and with feelings so pure, 

What mortal would injure, what care would pursue 

A being protected by heaven like you 1 

Bright beauty thou hast not, but something so fair 

It may serve to protect thee from sorrow and care. 

I pierce the light veil which would darken thy fate, 

And angels of happiness round thee await ; 

I see a bright cherub supporting thy head, 

While around thee the smiles of affection are shed ; 

I see thy aged arms around him prest. 

Thy gray locks waving o'er his youthful breast — 

I see thee on his tender bosom lay. 

In silent pleasure breathe thy life away. 

My tale is told — dear one, I linger now 

To kiss with fervent love tliy own fair brow. 



1833. 



ENIGMA. 



On the brow of the monarch in triumph I stand, 
I govern each measure, I rule each command ; 
Without me, his kingdom to atoms would fall. 
But I share not his crown, and I rule not his hall. 
I dance in the meadow, and play on the stream. 
And I glimmer obscurely in Luna's pale beam. 

I dwell in thy bosom, I'm part of thy form. 
But I ride on the tempest, and guide the fierce storm ; 
With the sea-nymph I rest on the moss-cover'd cliff, 
And I weep with the mourner that life is so brief 
O'er the grave of the mighty in sorrow I bow. 
And I rest in thy mind as thou'rt watching me now. 

Go look on the pillow of sorrow and care. 

On the brow that is wither'd by darkest despair, 

Stern affliction will meet you, but I am not there. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 205 

In the heart of the rich man, the court of the prince, 
In the mariner's vessel, the warrior's lance, 
In the tumult of war, on the brow of the fair. 
Though millions surround them still I am not there. 

In the home of the noble, the virtuous, the great, 

In thy own lovely bosom, rejoicing I wait. 

I wish I might dwell in that beautiful eye ; 

I wish I might float on yon pure azure sky ; 

I would lead you in triumph wherever I stray'd. 

Where the sunbeam had lit, or the pale moon had play'd. 

1834. 



ESSAY ON THE SACRED WRITINGS. 

The Bible — what is it? — every heart which has read 
and jwstly appreciated that inestimable volume cannot 
fail to exclaim, " This is the work of a God !" Who 
is there that will not admire, (although he read with a 
doubting mind,) its force, dignity, beauty, and simplicity 7 
Principles so pure, precepts so sublime, and thoughts 
so refined, who could have formed them but one in- 
spired by a God, or God himself? 'Tis our guide, our 
star to lead, the herald to usher us into a glorious eter- 
nity. When the mind is overwhelmed with care, what 
power can soothe like this sacred volume ? Its pages, 
beaming with truth and mercy, will shed a holy light 
over the troubled landscape, and impart a softer swell 
to the billows of adversity. It is the lighthouse by 
whose beams we should direct our path over the gloomy 
waves of life. Then why neglect it? Some may think 
it derogatory to their earthly dignity — " What will the 
world say ?" Read it, and learn from its sublime pre- 
cepts to stem the tide of worldly opinion. When all 
else fails you, this will remain the supporter of your 



206 MIS^ MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

rights ; here is real dignity and grandeur, but it is the 
dignity of the wul^ the grandeur of virtue, the dignity 
arising from a close alliance with the Deity. If He 
who thundered on Mount Sinai, and caused the silver 
founts to flow from rocks of adamant, will deign to 
ap'^'-oach so near us, is it for us to stand aloof, wrapped 
in mantle of our own insignificance, and brave the 
ten. -t of life alone? Oh! how depraved that heart 
mus* '^e, which such condescension will fail to affect 1 
and ■'W happy the bosom for ever confiding in its God ! 
ca in the midst of afflictions, resigned while the tor- 
rents of grief pour on the soul ; which, though borne 
down by sorrow, is fortified by virtue, and looks calmly 
and steadily forward to the calamities which it is certain 
will terminate in an endless communion with its Maker. 

February 2d, 1834. 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 

Oh tremble, ye proud ones ! oh tremble with fear ! 

For Jehovah has come in his wrath ; 
Stern vengeance is throned on his terrible brow, 

And lighting attends on his path. 
Oh shrink from the glance of his soul-quenching eye, 
As he treads on the whirlwind, and comes from on high ! 

Oh, burst the dark shackles of sorrow and sin ! 

Before his dread presence in penitence bow ; 
Oh, dash the bright wine-cup in terror away, 

And dare not to gaze on his broad flaming brow, 
For the angel of mercy no longer is there, 
To quiet your conscience, or soothe your despair. 



POETICAL REMAhNS. 207 

The spirit of death o'er your city has pass'd, 
His broad flaming weapon is waving on high ; 

Your sentence is heard in the whirlwind's rude blast, ^ 
'Tis written in fear on yon lightning-crown'd sky ; 

Oh, powerless your arm, and unwielded your lance. 

As he Cometh with vengeance and fire on his glance. 

The bride at the altar, the prince on his throne, 
The warrior secure in his strongly-built tower, 

For the soft voice of music hear sorrow's deep moan^ 
And shrink 'neath the hand of their God in his pov , • ; 

The smile on the cheek is transform'd to a tear, , <.]. 

But repentance is lost in bewailing and fear. 

Oh, turn to your God, in this moment of dread. 
For mercy may rest 'neath the frown on his brow. 

Oh, haste e'er each fast-failing hope shall have fled, 
Oh, haste in repentance and terror to bow. 

The moment of grace and repentance has pass'd ; 

Your entreaties for pardon are useless and vain ; 
The sword of destruction is levell'd at last, 

And Gomorrah and Sodom are ashes again. 



1834. 



VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 

Oh thou, who rollest far above. 

Round as my father's shield in war ! 

From whence proceed thy beams, oh sun. 
Which shine for ever and afar 1 

All cold and pale, the feeble moon 

Shrinks back, eclipsed beneath thy power ; 

The western wave conceals its light 
At morning's bright resplendent hour. 



208 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But thou, unchanging, mov'st aldhe ! 
Oh who may thy companion be 1 
, The rugged rocks, the mountains fall. 
But who may stand in might like thee 1 

The ocean shrinks and grows again, 
All earthly things will fade away, 

But thou for ever art the same, 
Rejoicing in thy brilliant ray ; 

Rolling and rolling on thy way, 

Enlightening worlds from day to day. 

When o'er yon vault the thunders peal, 
And lightning in its pathway flies ; 

When tempests darken o'er the world, 
And cloud the once resplendent skies, 

Thou rear'st on high thy noble form, 

And laughest at the raging storm. 

But now thou look'st to me in vain, 
For I behold thy beams no more ; 

I languish here in darkness now, 
On Erin's green and fertile shore. 

I know not if thy yellow hair 

Is floating on the western clouds, 

Or if the fleecy veil of morn 

Thy brilliant beauty lightly shrouds ; 

But thou, great sun, perhaps, like me. 

Shall days of rest and silence see. 

Amid the clouds thy form may sleep. 
Regardless of the morning's voice ; 

Exult then, mighty orb of day. 
And in thy vigorous youth rejoice. 

1834. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 209 

TO MY DEAR MAMMA. 

ON RETURNING FROM A LONG VISIT TO NEW YORK. 

Though my lyre has been silent, dear mother, so long 
That its chords are now broken, and loose, and unstrung, 

If 'twill call but one smile of delight to thy cheek, 
I will waken the notes which so long were unsung. 

My lyre has been thrown all neglected aside, 
x\nd other enjoyments I've sought for a while ; 

But though lured by their brilliance, still none can compare 
With my dear little harp and my mother's sweet smile. 

With joy I return to my books and my pen. 

To my snug little home and its inmates so dear, 

For while scribbling each thought of my half-crazy brain 
I can chase every sorrow and lull every fear. 

Oh excuse my poor harp, if these lines do not rhyme, 
'Tis so long since it warbled aught breathing of sense, 

That the chords, though I'm striving to tune them aright, 
Still warble of folly and pleasure intense. 

1834. 



ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F. H. WEBB. 

In vain I strike my youthful lyre. 

Some gayer music to impart. 
And dissipate the gloom which hangs 

Too sadly round my mourning heart. 

Oh, I would wish its low deep tones, 

Some gentler, sprightlier strains to borrow ; 

But still they only can respond 

The plaintive voice of heartfelt sorrow. 



210 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

For she, the young, the bright, the gay, 

Has left us here to weep, 
White cover'd with her parent clay. 

And wrapt in death's long sleep. 

But memory still can paint the scenes 

Of past, but ne'er forgotten joy. 
When we have sported wild and free, 

No sorrow pleasure's tide to cloy. 

Thy form, as it was wont to be. 

Still mingles with each thought of home ; 

My earliest sports were join'd by thee, 
When graced by beauty's brightest bloom. 

Again I view that hazel eye. 

With life and pleasure beaming ; 
Again I view that fair, white brow. 

Those dark locks o'er it streaming. 

Again I view thy blushing cheek, 

The glow of love and pride, 
When, 'mid the throng of smiling friends, 

A blooming, happy bride. 

But more than these, the angel mind 

Should all our thoughts engage ; 
Oh, 'twas unsullied and refined 

As is this spotless page. 

How changed the scene ! the star of hope 
Has set in clouds of darkest night. 

And she, the lovely and the gay, 

Is laid in the grave with her beauty and light. 

Oh, where shall the mother, all mourning and sad. 
Oh, where shall she look for the child she adored ! 

And where shall the husband, half frantic with grief. 
Find the wife in whose bosom his sorrows he pour'd ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 211 

How lonely and silent each well-beloved scene, 

Each garden, each grove, which she loved to frequent ; 

The sweet flowers she nurtured so fondly and long, 
In sorrow their heads to the damp ground have bent. 

But a flow'ret more lovely, more tender and pure, 
Is languidly drooping, no mother to guide ; 

The fond kiss of a mother it never can feel. 

And to her the warm prayer of a mother's denied. 

But the spirit we mourn has ascended on high. 
And there it will watch o'er its little one's fate ; 

In whispers her voice will be heard from the sky, 
With a mother's affection which ne'er can abate. 



1834. 



TO THE EVENING STAR. 

Though yon broad vault of heavenly blue 
Is spangled o'er with gems of light ; 

Though veil'd beneath its azure hue 
Is glittering many a star so bright ; 

Though thousands wait around the throne 
Of yon cold monarch, proudly fair ; 

Though all unite their dazzling powers 
To vie with Luna's brilliance there ; 

Each star which decks her cloud-veil'd brow, 

Or glitters in her snowy car, 
Would shrink beneath thy dazzling ray. 

Sweet little, sparkling evening star ! 

No twinkling groups around thee throng. 
Thy path majestic, lonely, bright ! 

A radiant softness shades thy form, 
First wanderer in the train of night ! 



212 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

While gazing on thy glorious path, 
It seems as though some seraph's eye 

Look'd with angelic sweetness down, 
And watch'd me from the glorious sky. 

As the dim twilight steals around. 
And thou art trembling far above, 

I think of those no longer here, 
Dear objects of my earliest love. 

And the soft ray which beams from thee 
A soothing calmness doth impart ; 

And from each poignant sorrow free, 
A sweet composure fills my heart. 

Oh ! then shine on thus pure and bright. 
Pour on each mourning soul thy balm ! 

Soothe the sad bosom's rankling grief. 
And fill it with thy heavenly calm ! 

Till meek, submissive, and resign'd, 
It seeks above a purer joy ; 

And stays the fickle, wayward mind 
On pleasures which can never cloy. 

1834. 



TO MY FATHER. 

Oh, how I love my father's eye. 

So tender and so kind ! 
Oh, how I love its azure dye, 

The index of his mind ! 

Oh, how I love the silver hair 
Which floats around his brow ! 

I love to press my father's form. 
And feel his cheek's warm glow. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 213 

Oh, what is like a parent's love 1 

What heart like his will feel, 
When sorrow's waves are ragingf round, 

And cares the thoughts congeal 1 

Would he not die his child to save ] 

Would not his blood be shed 
That yet one darling might remain 

To soothe his dying bed ? 

Oh, what is like a parent's care 

To guard the youthful muid ? 
Oh, what is like a parent's prayer, 

Unbounded grace to find ] 

Ah, yes ! my father is a friend 

I ever must revere. 
And, if I could but cease to love, 

His virtues I would fear. 



1834. 



ON NATURE. 

" How beautiful is Nature !" Every soul, 

Beating with warm and gentle feeling, 

Must repeat with me these heartfelt words, 

" How beautiful is Nature !" In the dark 

Awful waving of the sky-crown'd forest, 

Her gentle whisper, like an angel's voice. 

Still breaks upon the stillness ; — in the stream 

Which ripples past, is heard her low, sweet murmur ; 

While on the varied sky, the frowning mount. 

Her chainless hand majestical is laid ! 

What voice so sweet as hers ] what touch so soft, 

So delicate ] what pencilling so divine 1 

Oh, can the warmest fancy ever picture 

To the rapt soul, a scene more beautiful ! 



214 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Say, can imagination, light as air. 
Capricious as each varying wind which blows. 
Create a model of more perfect loveliness. 
More grace and symmetry ] Can thought present 
A tint more light, and yet more gorgeous. 
Hues more sweetly mingled, one dim shadow, 
Blending in grace more lovely with another 1 
Ah no! but 'tis the sin which dwells within 
That casts a dark'ning shade o'er Nature's face — 
Nought can there be more beauteous and divine ; 
But to the eye of discontent and wo. 
Her gentle graces seem to mix with sorrow ; 
And to the chilling glance of stern despair. 
Her sweetest smiJe is but a threatening cloud : 
Just as the mind is turn'd she smiles or frowns, 
And to each eye a different view appears. 
The cheerful, happy heart, devoid of guilt, 
Like a white tablet, opens to receive 
Each passing hue, and as the colours flit 
Over its surface, it becomes more tranquil, ' 
And fit to take once more the forms of joy. 
Which ever, as they glide so sweetly by. 
Tinge the fond soul with happiness serene. 
If dark, degrading sin had never cast 
Its shade of gloom o'er Nature's lovely brow. 
This world had been an earthly paradise. 
An all-presiding God has deck'd our globe 
With grace, and life, and light ; each object glows 
With heavenly tints, and every form 
Contains some hidden beauty, which, to minds 
Unburden'd with a consciousness of guilt. 
Proclaims the power of Him who rules o'er all. 
The falling snow-flake, or the humming bee. 
Small though they seem, may still contain a world 
Of knowledge and of skill, which human wisdom, 
Mix'd with human guilt, can never fathom. 
The smallest item in this wondrous plan. 
Replete with grace, and harmony, and light. 
Would form employment for a fleeting life ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 215 

Oh, 'twere a home for angels ! and a home 

No angel might despise, if human guilt 

Had never stain'd it with its crimson glow. 

Our earth was once an Eden, and if sin 

Had never tinged with blood its rippling streams, 

And ne'er profaned its broad luxuriant fields 

With scenes of wickedness and thoughts of wo, 

Had thus remain'd ; each heart o'erflowing 

With delight and love ; each bosom fill'd 

With heavenly joy. How awful is the change ! 

And how tremendous the effect of sin 

On nature and on man ! The wayward soul, 

Once open'd to degrading guilt, is deaden'd 

To her beauty ; and all the glowing charms 

Which waken'd it to love and happiness. 

Ere thus ensnared, are pass'd unnoticed now ! 

Oh, could we purify our souls from sin. 

Would we desire a brighter heaven than this ] 

More glorious, more sublime, more varied, 

Or more beauteous 1 The softly rippling stream, 

The rising mountain, and the leafy wood. 

Combine their charms to grace the splendid scene ! 

The light-crown'd firmament, the tinted sky. 

And all the sweetly varying graces 

Which bedeck the queenlike brow of nature, 

Serve but to show the power of nature's God, 

The mighty Lord of this immense creation ! 

The heavenly Maker of our lovely world. 



1834. 



TO THE INFIDEL. 

Behold, thou daring sinner ! canst thou say. 
As rolls the sun along its trackless course, 

A God has never form'd that orb of day. 

Of life, and light, and happiness the source ? 



216 MISS margarl:t Davidson. 

Who made yon dark blue ocean 1 Who 
The roaring billow and the curling wave, 

Dashing and foaming o'er its coral bed, 
Of many a hardy mariner the grave 1 

Who made yon dazzling firmament of blue, 
So calm, so beautiful, so brightly clear, 

Deck'd with its stars and clouds of fleecy white, 
Like the bright entrance to another sphere 7 

Who made the drooping flow'ret ] Who 
The snowy lily and the blushing rose — 

Emblem of love, which sheds its fragrance round, 
As with the tints of heaven it brightly glows 1 

Who raised the frowning rock 1 Who made 
The moss and turf around its base to grow 1 

Who made the lofty mountains, and the streams 
Which at their feet in rippling currents flow 1 

Say, was it not a God 1 and does not all 

Bear the strong " impress of his mighty hand V 

Oh yes — his stamp is fix'd on all around — 
All sprang to being at our Lord's command. 

Oh, ask the mind ! — oh, ask the immortal mind, 
And this will be stern reason's firm reply — 

'Twill echo o'er old ocean's swelling tide ; 
The hand that form'd us was a Deity ! 

1834. 



ON THE MIND. 

How great, how wonderful the human mind. 
Which, in each secret fold, conceals some dread, 
Mysterious truth ; which spurns the fetters 
Binding it to earth, yet draws them closer 



POETICAL REMAINS. 217 

Round it ; which, yearning- for a world more pure, 
And more cong-enial with its heavenly thoughts, 
Confines its soaring spirit to the region 
Of death and sin ! But oh, how glorious 
The sublime idea, that though this frame, 
Corrupt and mortal, mingle with the dust. 
There is a spark within, which, while on earth, 
Gives to the clay its energy and life. 
And when that clay returneth to the dust 
From whence it came, may rise triumphant 
From the senseless clod, and soaring, mount on high, 
To dwell with beings holy and divine ; 
And there, within its ever-growing ken. 
Clasp the great universe ; with angels there 
To expand those heaven-born powers, which here 
Were fetter'd with the earthly chains that bind 
Misguided man — pride, sorrow, discontent. 
And cold ambition, foolish and perverted — 
But destined there to burn in all its light, 
And urge the enfranchised on to seek 
Glories still undiscover'd, wonders 
As yet unknown. And can it be 1 Does this 
Weak, trembling frame conceal within itself 
A soul ethereal and immortal ] 
A glorious spark, sublime and boundless, 
" Struck from the burning essence of its God," 
The great I Am, the dread Eternal 1 
Oh, how tremendous is the awful thought ! 
The soul shrinks back alarm'd, too weak to gaze 
On its own greatness, or rather, on the greatness 
Of that God who made it ! Yes ! 'tis his work ! 
The moulding of his mighty hand ! How dread, 
How peerless, how incomparably great 
The Governor and Former of this vast machine ! 
Who watches from on high its slightest thought. 
And omnipresent and unbounded, sways 
Each feeling and each impulse ! and whose touch, 
However slight, may turn its passions from 
Their common channel, and whose breath can tune 
15 



218 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Aright those delicate and hidden fibres, 

Which, rudely touch'd, would yield their finest chords. 

And thus destroy the harmony of all. 

Leaving a blank and darken'd chaos 

Where once was harmony and joy ! 

Oh ye that seek to guide perverse mankind, 

Tamper not lightly with the human mind ; 

But when an erring friend from virtue strays, 

Gently reprove, and do not seek to guide 

Those hidden springs which God alone can fathom. 

Oh 'tis a fearful thing to see the mind. 

Derived from such a pure and holy source, 

Debased by sin, by dark, offensive crime, 

And render'd equal with the beasts that roam ! 

To see the wreck of all that once was good, 

The shrinking remnant of a noble soul. 

Like the proud ship, which for a while may stem 

The roaring ocean, but o'ercome by storms. 

With half its voyage done, is torn apart — 

The sails, the stately masts, and, last of all, 

The guiding helm — until the shatter'd hulk 

Lies undefended from the sweeping blasts, 

Threaten'd by frowning rocks ; — but as some 

Friendly hand may snatch from death's embrace 

The shuddering crew, so may a Saviour's love 

Redeem from endless wo the trembling sinner. 

And lead his shrinking spirit up to heaven ! 

The mighty God who saw him. err, can change. 

Within the twinkling of an eye, his wayward heart. 

And give to his apostate soul those pure 

And blessed dreams of heaven. 

Those hopes of immortality, which soothe 

The dying Christian ; and when his spirit 

Ascends to dwell with Him it once despised. 

Through the bright merits of our heavenly Lord. 

It there may join in love and hope with all 

The angel band, in singing praises 

To their glorious King, the great Jehovah ! 

Oh that we too might cherish every virtue. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 219 



Prepare our minds for immortality, 
Wiiere undisturb'd they may expand, 
And reach perfection in a future world. 

1834. 



ON THE HOPE OF MY BROTHER'S RETURN. 

Why rejoices my heart at the passage of time, 
As it sweeps on the wind o'er the fast-rolling year, 

And bounds as the sun to his broad couch declines, 
His bed in the ocean, majestic and clear ] 

I pause not to question if wise it may be, 

But faster I'll hurry old Time on his way ; 
And while hours unnumber'd shall rapidly flee, 

I'll laugh as they fade from the 'fast-closing day. 

When the icy-cold spell of stern winter shall break. 
And the snow shall dissolve like the dewdrops of morn ; 

When spring from his deathlike embraces shall wake, 
And verdure and brilliance her brow shall adorn ; 

To my fancy the woodlands more sweetly will smile, 
The streamlets unshackled more tranquilly glide ; 

More softly shall nature each sorrow beguile, 

And disperse every thought which with grief may be dyed. 

I will watch the bright flowers with their delicate bloom. 

Aroused, as by magic, from winter's cold tomb, 

For my heart will be gladden'd as near and more near 

The period approaches when he will be here. 

Oh June ! hoAv resplendent thy flowers shall appear, 

The loveliest, the sweetest which bloom in the year ! 

For Vv^ith me a fond brother your grace shall admire, 

And each word from his lips shall new rapture inspire. 

But these dreams, though enchanting, may prove to be vain, 

He never may visit the loved scene again ; 



220 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

On his home the dread weight of affliction may rest, 
And the cold hand of sorrow may chill the warm breast ; 
Or death from its bosom some dear one may sever, 
And stop the warm current of life-blood for ever. 
But love will illumine the future with light, 
And tinge every cloud with a colour as bright 
As hope in her own sanguine bosom has planted, 
Or fancy with all her illusions has granted. 

1834. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

The spring of life is opening 

Upon my youthful mind, 
And every day the more I see. 

The more there is to find. 

The path of life is beautiful 

When sprinkled o'er with flowers, 

And I ne'er felt affliction's touch, 
Or watch'd the weary hours. 

To guard my youthful couch from wo. 

An angel hovers near. 
Watches my bosom's every throe, 

And wipes each childish tear. 

It is my mother — and with her 
Through life I'd sweetly glide, 

And when my pilgrimage is o'er 
I'd moulder at her side. 

To her I dedicate my lay, 
'Tis she inspires my song ; 

Oh that it might those charms possess, 
Which to the muse belong. 



1834. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 221 



BOABDIL EL CHICO'S FAREWELL TO GRANADA. 

The youthful lyre would shrink from tales of wo, 

Would tune with hope and love each quivering string ; 
But when truth bids the sorrowing numbers flow, 

Its mournful chords responsive notes must ring. 
'Tis sweet to tell of laughing mirth and glee ; 

Its chords would vibrate but to purest joy ; 
And when deep anguish pours unmix'd and free. 

Would haste with hope the sinking heart to buoy. 

But faithful history still the page unfolds 

Of war and blood ; of carnage fierce and dark ; 
Of savage bosoms, cast in giant mould, 

And hearts unwarm'd by pity's gentle spark. 
Then cast your garb of merry music by, 

Assume the mantle of unbrighten'd wo ; — 
A cloud is gathering o'er the peaceful sky. 

And the warm sunbeams hide their golden glow. 

Robed in a mantle of unrivall'd light. 

The glorious sun was sinking o'er the plain, 
And tinging, with a glow of radiance bright. 

The towering domes and palaces of Spain. 
Between the lofty mounts which rise around. 

And form the deep ravine or shady dell, 
Granada's towers in mighty grandeur stood. 

And on the plain their darkening shadows fell. 

The beams were gilding all her lofty towers, 

As on Nevada's side Alhambra stood. 
And o'er her spacious halls, her laurel bowers. 

Her marble courts, they pour'd a dazzling flood. 
Her gothic arches glitter'd in the ray. 

While many a gushing fountain cool'd the air, 
And o'er the blushing flowers diffused their spray. 

Which bloom perennial in a world of care. 



222 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The golden lute upon the grape-vine hung-, 

O'er sparkling waves the fragrant orange rose, 
And o'er the gilded roofs the sunbeams flung 

A dazzling light, as when the diamond glows. 
And can it be ! — can scenes so fair as this 
Know aught but joy unclouded, purest bliss 1 
Will heaven's bright orb its dazzling brilliance shed, 
As if in mockery, upon sorrow's head 1 

Will skies of azure pour their softest light 
On hearts which grief has sear'd, and wo doth blight 1 
Will earth rejoice, while earthly hearts are riven, — 
While man, oppress'd, to dark despair is driven ] 
Retire, oh sun ! reserve thy cheering rays 
For calmer hours, for brighter, happier days ! 
Go shine on England's spires or India's bowers, 
But gaze not on Alhambra's humbled towers ! 

Cease, cease thy soft meanderings, sparkling river ! 
Wind sadly silent, gentle Guadalquiver ! 
No more thy waves through Moorish woodlands glance, 
No more reflect the Moorish warrior's lance, 
Nor view the tournament and sprightly dance. 
Cease, for thy foam is red with Moslem blood ! 
Cease, for thy lords lie cold beneath thy flood ! 
Captive Boabdil leaves his rightful throne. 
To others yields a kingdom once his own. 

Behold yon gate !' the ancient sages say 

No stone shall loosen, till that awfiil day, 

When yonder guardian hand, now firmly clasp'd, 

The mystic key beneath its arch has grasp'd ; 

At that dread hour each crumbling stone shall fall. 

And in one common ruin bury all ; 

But not till then, though first Alhambra lie 

A shapeless ruin, 'neath a frowning sky. 

Why should she last 1 the monument of shame, 
Her legends disbelieved, degraded every name ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 223 

Her noblest chiefs reduced to toil, 

Her maidens left, the conqueror's spoil ! 
Murder'd her children, scorn'd each lovely dame. 

Oh, that the mystic hand had power 
To veil Granada's shame ; 

That in one dark and awful hour, 
Might perish each dishonour'd name. 

Lo ! on yon mount appears a mournful train ! 
Behold the newly-conquer'd slave of Spain ! 
El Chico, humbled, winds his sorrowing way, 
For, with his home, he leaves the light of day. 
Ill-fated prince ! thine errors still I mourn ; 

A father's hatred caused each bursting sigh ; 
Thy youthful days were lonely and forlorn, 

Condemn'd a father's cruelty to fly. 



Thy heart was never form'd for kingly state ; 

It teem'd with softest feeling, gentlest thought ! 
Devoid of strength to battle with thy fate. 

For peace in vain thy troubled bosom sought ! 

Though the brave may not tremble when war shall surround 

them, 
Or shrink when the mantle of death shall have bound them, 
Yet the eye which can gaze unconcern'd on the tomb. 
Which can look without shrinking on death in its gloom. 
Will dissolve like the dew, or some wizard's dark spell, 
When it bids the sweet home of its childhood farewell. 

The exiled monarch slowly turn'd away ; 

He could not bear to view those towers again. 
Which proudly glitter'd in the sun's last ray, 

As if to mock their wretched master's pain. 
His weeping bride press'd trembling near his form. 

While sobs convulsive heaved her snowy breast; 
But proud Ayxa bade their sorrows cease. 

With scornful glances w^hich she scarce represt. 



224 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

"Chide me not, mother," cried the mourning son, 

" Nor charge me with unmanly weakness now ; 
I grieve that Spain the royal prize has won, 

That proud Granada to her kings should bow." 
He paused, and turn'd aside his glowing cheek ; 

His wandering eyes Alhambra's palace met : 
Those splendid domes, those towers for ever lost, 

Lost, when the sun of Moorish glory set. 

" Yes ! yonder towering spires are seized by Spain, 

Their king an exile from his native land ; 
Shall I ne'er view thy princely courts again, 

But yield resistless to the victor's brand ] 
Yes, thou art gone ! thine ancient splendours fled ! 

O'er thy gay towers the shroud of slavery thrown ; 
Thy proudest chiefs, thy noblest warriors dead, 

And all thy pride and all thy glory gone. 

" Farewell to Alhambra, dear home of my childhood ! 

Farewell to the land I so proudly have cherish'd ; 
Farewell to the streamlet, the glen, and the wild-wood, 

The throne of my fathers whose glory has perish'd ! 
'Neath the crest of Nevada the bright sun is setting, 

And tinging with gold yonder beautiful river, 
And his rays seem to linger, as if half-regretting 

They must leave the clear waves where so sweetly they 
quiver. 

" Farewell, thou bright valley ! I leave thee with sorrow ; 
Thou wilt smile as serene 'neath the sun of the morrow ; 
But thine ill-fated monarch shall view thee no more, 
He ne'er shall revisit thy beautiful shore." 
He paused, and the accents of heart-rending grief 
Were borne by the wind past each murmuring leaf. 

" Cease, cease these vain wailings !" Ayxa replied, 
" Nor languish and weep like thy timid young bride ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 225 

Why mourn like a maid, who in sorrow will bend,^ 

For what as a man thou couldst never defend "? 

Then cease these vain wailings, which womanlike pour, 

Or Ayxa la Horra will own thee no more ; 

Granada has fallen, her glory has fled, 

Her warriors and chieftains now sleep with the dead ; 

But who has surrender'd her walls to our foe, 

And branded her honour with shame's crimson glow 1" 

The tear to his eyelid unconsciously sprang, 
But back the intruder he eagerly flung. 
And cried, in a tone which with frenzy might blend, 
" Defamed by my country, and scorn'd by my friend !" 
They slowly ascended a rock towering high, 
Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sigh ;'' 
No prospect of beauty his mourning heart cheers, 
And he murmurs farewell on the dark hill of tears.^ 

Though grief and remorse with their terrors oppress'd him ; 
Though peace and afi'ection ne'er tranquilly blest him ; 
Though his kingdom was captured, his warriors were dying, 
Himself from the fury of Ferdinand flying ; 
Through the tumult of feeling his pride had sustain'd him, 
Had his griefs but a mother's fond sympathy gain'd him ; 
But the pride of a princess aflfection o'ercame. 
And with beisest dishonour she branded his name. 

Reproachful invectives unthinking she shower'd, 
" His country was fallen, its monarch a coward !" 
The proud Ayxa loved her yielding son, 
And would have died had death his glory won ; 
But she had hoped his rising fame to see. 
Had long'd to view his vanquished foemen flee. 

This cherish'd object of each glowing thought 

Stern disappointment now had torn away, 
And left a gaping wound, with frenzy fraught ; 

For hope and fancy pour'd no cheering ray. 



226 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The mother was forgot in stately pride, 
While bitter anguish drew the trembling tear 

He claim'd her pity — she could only chide, 
And laugh to scorn his cowardice and fear. 

But the fair Zorahayda, his beautiful bride, 
To soothe his affliction, remain'd at his side ; 
Each thought found an answering chord in her bosom, 
Which glow'd with affection's first beautiful blossom : 
'Twas warm as the sunbeam, and bright as its glance ; 
'Twas clear as the ripples which fairy-like dance ; 
Each thought and each feeling which dwelt in her soul 
Her eye and her countenance told him the whole. 

Yes, she, the young, the beautiful, the gay, 
To sorrow's dread abode love call'd away ! 
From her dark eye she wiped the starting tear, 
And by his side repress'd each rising fear ; 
Though dark despair should dim each future day, 
And even hope refuse her cheering ray. 
Her fairy form would bless his wandering eyes, 
Like some pure spirit from the glowing skies. 

Reposing 'mid Alhambra's shady bowers. 
She cheer'd his lonely and his weary hours ; 
But when, alas ! his brow no longer wore 
The crown, which proudly graced his front before. 
When fickle Moors forsook his tottering throne. 
When glory, power, and kingly state were gone. 
And threatening clouds were seen around to lower, 
Then, then he felt the more her witching power. 

Vanquish'd at last upon the battle field. 
And forced Granada's lofty towers to yield, 
Still the fair bud of promise brightly glow'd. 
From her heart's depths the warm affections flow'd ; 
She sweetly soothed his cares, she blest his name. 
And sorrow fann'd to light the kindling flame 
Which burn'd within that tender, faithful mind, 
To all his faults, and all his errors blind. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 227 

How sweet the communion of kindred minds, 

When sorrow each hope hath blighted ; 
When the heart which is bursting with agony finds 

One face with pure sympathy lighted. 
And must he from the fair Zorahayda be banish'd 

Must the charm of existence for ever be broken 1 
Has every fond dream of prosperity vanish'd, 

Must he sigh over love's wither'd token ] 

In the tower of Gomares he gather'd a few, 

And his warriors still faithful, he rallied. 
The broad Moorish banner far over them flew, 

And forth to the battle he sallied. 
He return'd — and his eye was cast down in despair, 

The glow on his cheek was still deeper ; 
" Farewell to Granada ! our foemen are there 1" 

Loudly echoes the voice of the weeper. 

" Come, wife of my bosom ! together we'll wander, 

The storm of affliction together we'll brave ; 
And perchance in some distant and desolate region. 

We may find a lone shelter, a home, and a grave, 
I would not my spirit should quit its sad mansion 

'Mid the taunts and revilings of conquering Spain, 
Where the foot of the victor would tread o'er my ashes, 

And reproach and dishonour would tarnish my name. 

" Oh, gaze on yon parapets towering on high, 

Those pillars of pride were but yesterday mine ; 
But to-day we are doom'd from their splendours to fly — 

Weep not for my sorrows, I mourn but for thine ; 
Those halls shall re-echo the loud voice of grief, 

Those fountains in murmurs respond to our sorrow, 
But ne'er can they waken the bright smile again, 

Which wo from gay pleasure a moment would borrow. 

" Around those gay mansions and beautiful bowers 
The foot of the stranger contemptuous shall press ; 



228 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Unmark'd the bright fountains, uncultured the flowers, 
No fair hand to cherish, no soft voice to bless, 

Ill-fated Boabdil ! thy name shall be hated ! 

The babe shall repeat it with moaning and tears, 

And the eye which was sparkling, with pleasure elated, 
Indignant shall glance on thy cowardly fears." 

He paused, and led away his mourning bride. 
In grief his solace, and in joy his pride. 
But whither do his weary footsteps bend 1^ 
What clime his broken heart one joy can lend 1 
Where can he now from shame despairing fly, — 
Beneath what golden sun, what beaming sky '] 

On Afric's arid plains and yellow sands. 
Leagued with the Moslem's wild and ruthless bands, 
With desperate force he grasp'd the fatal lance. 
And shrank not at the scimitar's broad glance ; 
Fighting for strangers' rights he bravely fell, 
While his own land was sunk in slavery's spell ; 
Far from affection's soft and soothing hand, 
Interr'd by strangers in a foreign land. 

How strange the structure of the human heart. 
Which springs anew 'neath sorrow's quivering dart ; 
Bursting from wild despair, from sullen gloom. 
And fired by frenzy, hastening to the tomb. 
Reckless of danger, — rushing to the strife, — 
For strangers bleeding, — yielding even life, — 
Thus did Boabdil sink on Afric's plain, 
His nam.e dishonoured in his own bright Spain ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 229 



NOTES TO BOABDIL EL CHICO. 

NOTE I. 

" Behold yon gate I the ancient sages say." 
On the keystone of the arch is engraven a gigantic hand ; within 
the vestibule on the keystone of the portal is engraven in like 
manner a gigantic key. Those who pretend to some knowledge 
of Mahometan symbols affirm, that the hand is an emblem of doc- 
trine, and the key of faith. The latter, they add, was emblazoned 
on the standard of the Moslems, when they subdued Andalusia, in 
opposition to the Christian emblem of the cross. According to 
Mateo, it is a tradition handed down from the oldest inhabitants, 
that the hand and key were magical devices, upon which the fate 
of the Alhambra depended. The Moorish king who built it was 
a great magician, and, as some believe, had sold himself to the 
devil, and had lain the whole fortress under a magical spell. This 
spell, the tradition went on to say, would last till the hand on the 
outer arch should reach down and grasp the key, when the whole 
pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried beneath 
it by the Moors would be revealed. — Irving. 

NOTE II. 
" Why mourn as a maid, who in sorrow will bend," 
It was here, too, his affliction was embittered by the reproaches 
of his mother Ayxa, who had often assisted him in times of peril, 
and had vainly sought to instil into him a portion of her own reso- 
lute spirit — " Why mourn as a woman, for that which as a man 
you could not defend ?" — Irving. 

NOTE III. 

" Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sigh." 
Beyond the embowered regions of the Vega, you behold a line 
of arid hills. It was from the summit of one of these that the un- 
fortunate Boabdil cast back his last look on Granada, and gave 
vent to the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and 
history as " The Last Sigh of the Moor." — Irving. 



230 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

NOTE IV. 
" And he murmur'd farewell on the dark hill of tears." 
Another name given to the hill on the summit of which he bade 
farewell to Granada. 

NOTE V. 

" But whither do his weary footsteps bend ?" 
After leaving the Alpuxarra mountains he proceeded to Africa, 
and died in defence of the territories of Muley Aben, King of Fez. 
On leaving Spain, a band of faithful followers and the members of 
his household collected on the beach, to bid him farewell. As the 
vessel in which he had embarked was slowly floating onward, they 
shouted, " Farewell, Boabdil ! Allah preserve thee, El Zogoybi !" 
(or the unlucky.) The name thus given him sank so deeply into 
his heart, that he burst into a flood of tears, and was unable to 
speak from emotion. 

1834. 



THE SHUNAMITE. 

The sun had gently shed his twilight beams 
O'er Shunam's graceful waving harvest fields, 
And with his golden rays each object tinged, 
Imparting to all nature hues of joy : 
The western sky had caught his parting ray, 
And with reflected glory shone above, 
In all the lovely varied hues which deck 
A summer sky ; masses of floating cloud 
Hung gorgeous in the clear, blue firmament, 
Brilliant as are the fairest rainbow's hues ; 
While round them spread the light and silver haze, 
Beyond whose fold the eye could just discern 
The pure transparence of the azure heaven. 
The scene was beautiful ! A tranquil sleep 
Seem'd on the brow of nature lightly resting ! 
It was an hour when the pure soul might rise 
And dwell in sweet communion with its God. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 231 

And contemplation and unmingled love 

Find for a while repose and silence there. 

But where is she, the gentle, lovely mother, 

Whose soul delighted in an hour like this 1 

Oh, why does not her footstep softly shake 

From the moist grass the drops of pearly dew 1 

Say, have the glittering charms of wealth and pride 

Allured her from the sweetest charms of nature 3 

Have the gay baubles she was wont to scorn 

Enticed her from this lovely scene away 1 

It cannot be ; perchance amid the sick • 

Or suffering poor, her pitying spirit 

Finds sweet employment, while her liberal hand 

Offers relief to the sad pensioners 

Who on her bounty live. No ! while her heart 

Was free from care and racking anguish, 

She could soothe another's grief; but 7iow — 

Alas ! how alter'd now — her darling child, 

The laughing, sprightly boy, who at her side 

Was wont in childish frolic to remain — 

Where is he now 1 The tones of his soft voice 

Would soothe a mourner's heart, however sad. 

Much more the mother's, who so dearly loved him — 

Ay, loved him ! for she now hath nought to love 

Save the cold remnant of what once was life ! 

Yes ! in the splendid mansion which but seems 

To mock her heartfelt agony, she weeps, 

And weeping, watches o'er the lifeless corpse 

Of her adored, her beautiful, her boy. 

Perhaps just heaven removed this cherish'd flower, 

That her own heart, bereft of earthly joy. 

Might cling more closely to her God and Maker. 

I know not — but the blow was keenly felt, 

And deeply, truly mourn'd. 

The spacious room 
With rich embroider'd tapestry was hung. 
And, mingled with the massy, crimson folds, 
Shone many a gem of burning lustre. 
The floor was paved with polish'd marble, 
And the lifeless form which lay before her 



232 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Was array'd in costly garments ; but she, 
Vainly communing there with icy death, 
If at her feet lay all the wealth of nations. 
One speaking glance of life from those sweet eyes 
Now closed for ever, had been worth it all. 
The boy lay gently cradled on the knee 
Of the fond mother, and her crimson robe 
Around his form was wrapt ; while on one arm 
His fair young head was pillow'd, and her brow, 
Her aching brow, reclined upon the other. 
The auburn curls around his temples clung. 
Clustering in beauty there, and the blue veins, 
So clearly seen 'neath the transparent skin, 
Seem'd flowing still with life-blood ; the long lash 
Of his blue, half-closed eye appear'd to tremble 
On his fair cheek, while the fast-rolling tears 
Which from his mother's darker orbits fell, 
Droop'd from his snowy brow, as they had rested 
Upon a marble statue. 

Her grief 
Burst forth awhile in sobs and bitter groans, 
But when the view of death had for a time 
Met her dull vision, and the sight of sorrow 
Grew more familiar, then her full heart 
Burst forth in words, simple but plaintive. 
Sweetly pathetic v/ere the gentle tones 
Of her melodious voice ; no ear 
Could listen but to pity, and no eye 
That saw her but must gaze and weep. 



LAMENT. 

And art thou gone, my beautiful, my boy, 
Thy sorrowing father's pride, thy mother's joy ! 
I had not thought, my child, to view thee so, 
In death's cold clasp laid motionless and low ! 
I had not thought to close thy beaming eyes, 
To hear thy dying groans, thy feeble cries. 
Alas ! that thus for thee my tears should flow ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 233 

I thought not that this form, so fair and bright, 
Death with his chilling arrows e'er could blight ; 
And oh, my child, my child, it cannot be 
That his cold hand hath rested upon thee ! 
That this fair form, so active but to-day, 
Is now a senseless, lifeless mass of clay — 
Dust of the earth, fit subject for decay ! 

How white thy brow ! how beautiful thy skin ! 

The spirit must be resting still within ! 

The pure, warm blood thy lip is tinging still, — 

The purple current seems each vein to fill ! 

Oh no, it cannot be ! My boy, awake ! 

Rouse from this slumber, for thy mother's sake ! 

Rouse, ere that mother's mourning heart shall break ! 

It is not so ! my boy is gone for ever, 
And I shall view his face again, oh never ! 
Ah, my sweet boy, I've watch'd thine infant years 
With joy and grief, alternate hopes and fears. 
For many a night I've borne thee on my knee, 
Full many an hour of care I've spent for thee ; 
Thy joy would glad me, and thy grief bring tears. 

Fond fancy pictured thee a noble man, 
The fairest work in nature's wondrous plan ; 
The foremost leader in each patriot band, 
Redeeming Syria from her foeman's hand ; 
Fearless in battle, swiftest in the race. 
Replete with courage, virtue, strength, and grace 
I saw thee generous, noble, active, mild, 
And blest the hero as my darling child ! 

But oh, my God ! these hopes were crush'd by thee ; 
How shall I murmur at thy dread decree ! 
Hush, rebel spirit ! whispering conscience tells 
I should not vent each troubled thought which swells 

In my torn heart — my woes I'll speak no more. 
Nor each vain thought which there impatient dwells. 

Waiting for utterance at my bosom's door. ^ 
16 



234 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Rouse, dormant soul ! nor sleep when needed most, 
While thy frail bark on adverse seas is tost, 
And all thy comfort, all thy hope is lost ! 
I'll hie me to the prophet's mountain home, 
He shall redeem my darling from the tomb. 
Or teach me how, resign'd, to bear my doom. 

She ceased ; 
A glance of hope o'er her pale features flash'd, 
And with unwonted energy she raised 
Her feeble hands in prayer to heaven. 
Once more she press'd her pallid lips upon 
The marble forehead of her lovely boy, 
Then rising, laid the cold and lifeless load 
From off her bosom, strong in her despair ; 
Then wildly throwing back the silken folds 
Which droop'd upon the wall, she rush'd along, 
Through many a corridor and hall, illumed 
With glittering lamps and gems of burning lustre. 
Her sandall'd feet glanced lightly on the floor. 
And her soft tread no answering echo gave ; 
But heavier far her footstep would have been. 
Beneath the galling burden on her heart. 
If all had been despair ; but the small grain of hope 
Which linger'd still within, her onward course 
Served but to quicken ; something in her soul 
Seem'd battling with its sorrow, and a spark. 
Lighted by hope, within, a tiny star. 
Shone o'er the almost desert gloom of wo. 
She hasted on ; and soon her form was lost, 
In its dim outline, amid the windings 
Of her noble mansion. Where hath she gone 1 
Why at this moment leave her lifeless son 1 
What human voice can yield her heart relief? 
What hand redeem her loved one from the dust 1 
Return, frail mourner ! and indulge thy grief, 
Where none are nigh to view its heartfelt pangs ; 
Return, nor seek one sympathetic heart 
In the cold world around thee : thou wilt see. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 235 

Since rankling- sorrow hath oppress'd thy soul, 

All who with smiles attended thee before 

Will gaze on thee in scorn, and mock thy tears, 

Nor heed thy bitter groans. Oh better far 

In thine own heart to hide each torturing grief, 

And meet thy sorrow here. But she hath gone ! 

Twilight is stealing on, and she hath gone ! 

And where 1 — Gaze on yon rugged path, which leads 

Far onward to the mountain's brow, and there 

Behold her toiling on her weary way ! 

The thorny brambles meet along her path. 

And close around o'ershadowing thickets grow — 

But still she rushes on — the piercing thorn 

Or fallen bough, alike unheeding all. 

And with despairing heart and weary step 

Reaches the mighty prophet's mountain home. 

:f: * * % * >!« 

The last faint day-streak gleams on Carmel's brow, 

And lights the tearful traveller on her way, 

As with the holy man of God she turns 

Her sorrowing footsteps backward to her home — 

They enter, and once more she stands beside 

The silent couch of her unconscious boy. 

There, overcome by speechless, mute despair, 

Her agony how great ! — Cold, deathlike drops 

Hang on her snowy brow, and, half-distracted 

With o'erwhelming grief, she turns her from the sight 

Of the dear object of her fondest love. 

* 5f; % % * :f; 

Behold the prophet ! Lo ! the man of God 
Is lowly bending o'er the couch of death — 
His long, dark mantle floating loosely round 
His tall, majestic form ; his silver locks 
Parted far backward on his noble brow, 
And his full, piercing eye upraised to heaven ! — 
His hands are clasp'd — the feeble fingers 
Trembling with emotion, and from his lips 
Bursts forth an ardent prayer. He ceased, 
And on the body stretch'd his aged form, 



236 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Press'd his warm lips upon the marble brow, 
And chafed the infant limbs. 
'Tis done ! — behold, the sleeping child awakes, 
And sweetly smiles upon the holy man ! 
And lo ! the weeping mother clasps her boy 
Again, redeem'd ffom the embrace of death, 
And strains him to her throbbing heart, as though 
She fear'd the ruthless tyrant yet once more 
Might snatch him from her arms ! 
While the dread prophet stands aloof from all, 
And views the object of his fervent prayer 
Restored again to love, and light, and life ! 

1834. 



BELSHAZZAR'S FEAST. 

Through proud Belshazzar's lofty halls 

A wavering light is streaming, 
And o'er his heaven-defying walls, 

The blaze of torches gleaming. 
Hark ! the voice of music breaks 

Softly on the midnight air, 
Each boisterous shout of laughter speaks 

Of hearts untouch'd by wo or care. 

The sounds of joy harmonious floating 

Over Euphrates' silver tide. 
Which flows in ripples, gently passing 

Near many a tower of stately pride. 
With mirth, Belshazzar's halls resound, 

Joy spreads each smiling feature o'er, 
And laughing hundreds gather round 

The red libations, as they pour 

From silver cup, and golden urn. 
Once mantling with the holy wine. 

By impious hands in frenzy torn 
From great Jehovah's sacred shrine. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 337 

Surrounded by each smiling- guest, 

In regal pomp and splendid state. 
With all save God's approval blest, 

The warrior king serenely sate. 

Their hearts demoniac pleasure found, 

Exulting triumph svi^ell'd their strain, 
While Israel's children, captive, bound. 

Were groaning 'neath their weight of pain : 
Bright lamps o'erhung the festive scene, 

Diffusing soften'd brilliance round. 
While mocking Israel's mighty Lord, 

They dash'd his wine-cups to the ground. 

Why does Belshazzar's lip turn pale 1 

Why shrinks his form with trembling fear 1 
Why fades, within his tiger eye. 

The scornful glance, the taunting sneer? 
A shadowy cloud o'erhangs the wall, 

A mighty hand each fold reveals ! 
There's silence in that princely hall, 

And trembling awe each vein congeals. 

The mystic fingers darkly move. 

And words unknown in silence trace ; 
Wide o'er the illumined walls they spread. 

While horror fills each pallid face ! 
Oh ! who those awful words may read, 

Or who their mighty import tell 1 
What hand perform'd the fearful deed. 

What tongue may break the magic spell ! 

Come forth, ye Chaldean seers ! come forth, 

Ye men of Egypt's burning soil ! 
Let the dread words your thoughts employ. 

And be the object of your toil ! 
Oh, gaze upon the glowing wall ! 

Ha! proud magicians, do ye shrink? 
Say, does the sight your hearts appal 

As if on death's terrific brink 1 



238 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Now, strive to win the golden crown, 

The scarlet robe, the badge of power — 
And tell if heaven in justice frown, 

If round your king the tempest lower. 
But still they shrink with innate fear, 

Still from the awful scene retire ; 
While trembling lips proclaim their awe, 

And rouse the monarch's fiercest ire. 

Who may the characters explain, 
When Chaldea's ancient sages fail 1 

Must the dread secret thus remain 
Wrapt in its dark, mysterious veil 1 

Come forth, thou man of God, come forth ! 

By heaven beloved, by man reviled. 
Robed in the mantle of thy faith, 

Come forth, Jehovah's chosen child ! 
Fear not to read Belshazzar's fate ! 

Thy heavenly Father guards thee still ! 
Though robed in scarlet, throned in state. 

Thy God can mould him at his will. 

Oh, mark his firm, majestic mien ! 

Oh, mark his broad and lofty brow ! 
With soflen'd courage, calm, serene. 

And flush'd with conscious virtue's glow. 
Well might they shrink before the man. 

Whose gaze had reach'd the realms of bliss, 
Whose eye had pierced a brighter world. 

Whose spotless soul had soar'd from this. 

Oh, hark ! his firm and manly voice 

Is heard within that princely hall ; 
No more the impious crowds rejoice. 

But thrilling silence spreads o'er all. 
" Oh king ! in wealth, and pride, and power, 

At God's great footstool humbly fall. 
That God hath seal'd thy doom this hour, 

'Tis stamp'd on yonder fated wall. 



POETICAL REMAIJNS. 239 

" Thy stubborn knee was never bent, 

Thy earthly heart was humbled never 
Before the throne of Israel's God, 

Of life, of breath, of power the giver. 
Against the Lord of heaven thy hand 

In bold impiety is raised, 
And vessels sacred to his name 

The feasts of idol gods have graced. 

" He in whose balance lords of earth 

With justice, mercy, power, are tried, 
Hath weigh'd thine errors and thy worth, 

But virtue is o'ercome by pride. 
From death thou art no longer free, 

Thy sun of glory shall decline ; 
The golden crown no more shall bind 

That proud, ambitious brow of thine. 

" The Medes and Persians shall possess 

That which so lately was thine own ; 
God will e'en now our wrongs redress, 

And hurl thee from thy tottering throne." 
He ceased, — an awful silence reign'd, 

And chain'd each scarcely throbbing breast. 
Where were the passions once so rude 1 — 

Lull'd by the prophet's voice to rest ? 

Gaze on Belshazzar's pallid brow, 

And trace the livid horror there ; 
Big drops o'erhang its surface now. 

And backward starts the clustering hair ; 
His eyeballs strain'd and wildly staring 

Upon the spot which bears his doom. 
Seem like a frighted lion glaring 

Through the dark forest's lonely gloom. 
***** 
Morn hath brighten'd o'er Chaldea, 

Morning, lovely, fragrant, bright ; 
Glory crowns a night of terror, 

Deeds of darkness view her light 



240 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Euphrates' waves are brightly sparkling 
Beneath Aurora's rosy beam, 

As though the night had never darken'd 
Above its broad and rapid stream. 

The close of evening view'd it smiling, 

Deck'd with barks and forms of light, 
The weary moments still beguiling, 

Sporting on its bosom bright. 
Where are all its beauties banish'd 1 

Why its banks so lone and still 1 
Have al] its pride and glory vanish'd, 

All save desolation chill 1 

The Mede and Persian have been here, 
Heaven's just vengeance to fulfil ; 

Proud Belshazzar reigns no more, 
God has wrought his sovereign will. 

1834. 



TO MY MOTHER ON CHRISTMAS DAY. 

When last this morning brightly shone 

Around my youthful head, 
Inspiring love and joy and glee. 

Dismissing fear and dread, 

I thought not I should see thee here 
Reclining on thy Margaret's breast ; 

I thought that in a brighter sphere 
Thy weary soul would sweetly rest. 

But since the mighty God above 

Has granted this my fervent prayer. 

My heart is fill'd with joy and love 
For all his kindness and his care. 



POETICAL REMAm3, 241 

Oh may his guardian wings o'erspread, 
To guard from sorrow, pain, or harm, 

My mother's weary aching head, 
And every rising fear disarm. 

May sweet reflections soothe thy cares, 
And fill with peace thy beating heart. 

And may the feast which love prepares 
A sweet security impart. 



When He, who warm'd thy gentle soul, 
And planted every virtue there 

Shall snatch thee hence to realms of bliss, 
And free from earthly sin and care. 



Oh, may a daughter's tender hand 
The pillow of affliction smooth. 

Teach every grief to lose its pang, 
And every sorrow fondly soothe. 



1834. 



ON VISITING THE PANORAMA OF GENEVA. 

Oh, if a painter's touch can form thee thus, 
So bright with all an artist's hand can give, 

How passing beautiful those scenes must be, 
Which here inanimate, there sweetly live. 

Each verdant shrub, which here inactive bends. 
So gently waving o'er the placid stream. 

And the sweet brook, which winds so silent now, 
Reflecting back the sun's effulgent beam. 

Look, where the mighty torrent of the Rhone, 
Far, far beyond my wandering eye extends, 

And see yon crumbling fort, with moss o'ergrown. 
O'er whose high walls the weeping willow bends. 



242 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Mark on the right, yon broad expanse of blue, 

Lake Leman, placid, beautiful and clear, 
So gently murmuring, as it flows along, "* 

Of peace and happiness un planted there. 

And towering far above, the mighty Alps 

Rear their tall heads terrific and sublime, 
Each snow-capp'd summit mingling with the clouds, 

Seems to defy the ravages of time. 

It seems as though the glowing canvass moved, 
Each figure fill'd with life and joy and love. 

As if the dark blue waters at my feet 

Would break the chain which binds them there, and move. 

Each hill, each rock seems bursting into life, 

The painter mock'd reality so well ; 
It seems as if those shadowy forms would speak, 

Could they but break the artist's magic spell. 

1834. 



THE FUNERAL BELL. 

Hark ! the loudly pealing bell 

Rises on the morning air ; 
Its tones subdued and sadly swell. 

For death, unpitying death is there !- 
Hark ! again it peals aloud. 

Bearing sorrow on its tone ; 
While from the sad assembled crowd. 

Is heard the echoing sob and groan. 

Yes, in that solemn note is heard 
A voice, proclaiming wo and death ; 

A voice which tells of endless time, 
Of sorrow's desolatinor breath. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 343 

To the warm fancy it would say, 

In words wliich strike the heart with fear ; 

Words for the thoughtless, vam, and gay, 
Words echoed from the sable bier — 

" A spirit from the world hath fled, 

A soul from earth departed ; 
While mourners weep above the dead, 

Despairing — broken-hearted ! 
Through the vast fields of viewless time 

That conscious soul hath gone ; 
To answer for each earthly crime, 

At God's eternal throne. 

" There at his mighty bar it stands, , 

A trembling, guilty thing. 
To answer all his Judge demands, 

Or his dread praises sing ! 
Dust to its kindred dust returns ! 

Earth to its mother earth ! 
Still'd are its passions and its cares, 

And hush'd its voice of mirth. 

" Then learn from this how weak and vain 

Is every earthly gift ; 
How in one instant all may fade, 

And leave thee thus bereft, 
When thy fond heart is filled with joy, 

With gay and mirthful feeling, 
Bethink thee, that the form of death 

Beside thee may be stealing. 
That ere another hour has past. 

That rosy smile may fade. 
And the light form that glides so fast, 

In the cold tomb be laid, 

" That the young heart within that clay, 
To God's dread bar shall pass away, 



244 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And the dim future, dark to thee, 
Shall bear it on its tideless sea, 

To light or darkness, joy or wo, 
Just as thy life hath pass'd below." 

1834. 



VERSES WRITTEN WHEN TWELVE YEARS OF AGE. 
LINES 

ON RECEIVING A BLANK-BOOK FROM MY MOTHER. 

Though the new year has open'd in sickness and fear, 

Though its dawning has witness'd the sigh and the tear, 

Though the load on my heart and the weight on my brain, 

And the sadness around me cause sorrow and pain, 

Each feeling of wo from my bosom is driven 

While I view the sweet volume affection has given, 

And gazing delighted on binding and leaf, 

I forget every thought which is tinctured with grief 

Though it needed no gift from my mother to prove 

The depth of that current of long-cherish'd love, 

Which hath flow'd on unceasing, unaltering still, 

Through sorrows unable its bright waves to chill, 

Yet 'tis strangely delightful, 'tis sweet to possess 

Some memento to cherish and gaze on like this, 

Some gift which long hence may impart to the mind 

Fresh hues of the image there sweetly enshrined : 

Which, when every gay feeling is clouded with night, 

May burst on the soul like an angel of light. 

And presenting unalter'd the visions of love, 

Which had slumber'd awhile the more sweetly to soothe, 

May illumine the darkness with radiance sublime, 

But more bright from repose, and unclouded by time. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 245 

Oh, think not, my mother, I ever shall part 
From a token thus soothing, and sweet to my heart ; 
That the dear little volume thus coming from thee, 
Shall e'er be less valued, less cherish'd by me. 
When the fathomless future its page shall unfold, 
When time o'er this head now so youthful has roll'd 
And left me like others, gray, wither'd and old. 
Then, then shall this gift of the merry new year. 
From the loved one whose spirit no longer is here. 
Impart a sweet sadness, and draw the warm tear. 
'Twill bring fresh to remembrance my own lovely home, 
And each feeling, each hope, which is now in its bloom. 
As a fair little talisman bound up with joy 
'Twill be clasp'd to my bosom its fond hopes to buoy, 
And the love now within it must cease there to dwell. 
When I bid this dear volume a lasting farewell. 

1835. 



TO FANCY. 

Fly on, aerial Fancy ! fly 

Back, back through many an age, 

To scenes which long have glided by, 
Untold on history's page. 

Oh, stretch thy heavenward wings and soar 
Through clouds mysterious and sublime, 

To scenes which earth shall view no more, 
Far down the dark abyss of time. 

Lit by thy pure, celestial touch. 

Earth, heaven, and sea have softly glowM, 
Nought in created space which ne'er 

To thine enchanting sway hath bow'd. 



246 ^^ISS MARGARET DAVIDSON, 

Worlds framed and beautified by thee, 
Have glow'd with every rainbow hue, 

And o'er each meaner thing thy form 
Hath shed a radiance as it flew. 

All potent Fancy ! deign to bend 
One glance upon thy suppliant here ! 

Thy glowing car in kindness send. 
And bear me to thy beauteous sphere. 

Believe me, thou hast ever been 

The cherish'd monarch of my heart ! 

There's not one thought, one hope, one scene, 
In which thy vagaries have no part. 

Then deign to look with pitying eye 
Upon thy votary's bended form ; 

Disperse each cloud from yonder sky. 
And clasp me in thy guardian arm. 

1835. 



INVOCATION TO SPRING. 

Bend down from thy chariot, oh beautiful Spring, 

Unfold like a standard thy radiant wing, 

And beauty and joy in thy rosy path bring ! 

We long for thy coming, sweet goddess of love. 

We watch for thy smile in the pure sky above. 

And we sigh for the hour when the wood birds shall sing. 

And nature shall welcome thee, beautiful Spring ! 

How the lone heart will bound as thy presence draws near. 

As if borne from this world to some lovelier sphere ! 

How the fond soul to meet thee in raptures shall rise. 

When thy first blush has tinted the earth and the skies. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 247 

Oh, send thy soft breath on the icy-bound stream, 

'Twill vanish, 'twill melt, like the forms in a dream, 

Released from its chains, like a child in its glee, 

'Twill flow on in its beauty, all sparkling and free. 

It will spring on in joy, like a bird on the wing, 

And hail thee with music, oh beautiful Spring ! 

But tread with thy foot on the snow-cover'd plain, 

And verdure and beauty shall smile in thy train. 

Only whisper one word with thy seraph-like voice, 

And nature to hear the sweet sound shall rejoice ! 

Oh, Spring ! lovely goddess ! what form can compare 

With thine so resplendent, so glowing, so fair? 

What sunbeam so bright as thy own smiling eye. 

At whose glance the dark spirits of winter do fly ] 

A garland of roses is twined round thy brow. 

Thy cheek like the pale blush of evening doth glow ; 

A mantle of green o'er thy soft form is spread. 

And the zephyr's light wing gently plays round thy head. 

Oh, could I but mount on the eagle's dark wing, 

And rest ever beside thee. Spring, beautiful Spring ! 

Methinks, I behold thee ! I hear thy soft voice ! 

And in fulness of heart I rejoice ! I rejoice ! 

But the cold wind is moaning, the drear snow doth fall, 

x\nd nought but the shrieking blast echoes my call. 

Oh, heed the frail offering an infant can bring ! 

Oh, grant my petition. Spring, beautiful Spring ! 



1835. 



FROM THE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINTH 
PSALM. 

Where from thy presence shall I flee ] 
Where seek a hiding-place from thee 1 
If the pure breath of heaven I share, 
Lo ! I shall find thy spirit there ! 
If wandering to the depths of hell, 
I trust in secrecy to dwell, 



248 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Behold ! in all thy power and might, 

Thou, Lord, shalt pierce the veil of night. 

If on the radiant wings of morn 

To unknown lands I'm gently borne ; 

There, even there thy hand shall lead, 

Thy voice support my sinking head. 

If to my inmost soul I say, 

Darkness and night shall shroud my way, 

That darkness shall dissolve in light. 

And day usurp the throne of night. 

No power can dim thy searching eye. 

Or bid thy guardian spirit fly. 

Thou knowest well each infant thought. 

Which passion, pride, or sin has taught ; 

And doubts and fears, but half express'd, 

To thee. Almighty, stand confess'd. 

Plain as the waves of yonder sea, 

Man's subtlest thoughts are known to thee. 

From the small insect tribe, which plays 

Within the sun's enlivening rays. 

To the broad ocean wave, which rise 

In heaving billows to the skies. 

Or great or small, each work of thine, 

It whispers of a hand divine. 

Each breeze which fans the twilight hour. 

Speeds onward, guided by thy power; 

Each wind which wildly sweeps abroad, 

Is teeming with the voice of God. 

1835. 



STANZAS. 



The power of mind, the force of genius. 
Oh, what human heart can tell. 

Or the deep and stirring thoughts. 
Which in the poet's bosom dwell ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 249 

The high and holy dreams of heaven, 

Which raise the soul above 
This vi^orld of care, this sphere of sin, 

To realms of light and love. 

Oh, who can tell its energy 1 

The spirit's power and might, 
When genius, with sublimest force, 

Appoints its upward flight, — 

And lifts the struggling soul above 

This prison-house of clay, 
To roam amid the fancied realms 

Of glory and of day ! 

And breathes immortal vigour 

To sustain it through this life, 
The index of a higher world. 

With power and beauty rife. 

Oh, how sublime the very thought, ^ 

That this frail form of mine 
Contains a spirit destined soon 

In purer worlds to shine. 

To unfold its infant energies, 

In an immortal clime, 
And far more glorious become 

Each passing hour of time. 

That it contains the heavenly germ 

Of future being now, 
Created there to beautify, 

Where clearer waters flow. 

And there expand the glowing bud, 

'Mid worlds of light and love, 
Through the bright realms of ether, 

In glory still to rove. 
17 



250 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON, 



LETTER TO A POETICAL CORRESPONDENT, 

WRITTEN DURING MY ILLNESS, IN ANSWER TO ONE IN WHICH 
SHE DESCRIBES PEGASUS AS BLIND, HALT, AND LAME, AND 
ENDEAVOURS TO CHEER ME WITH THE PROSPECT OF SPEEDY 
RECOVERY. 

Now, my dear Cousin Maggy, behold me again, 
Relieved in a measure from sickness and pain ; 
With a well-sharpen'd phiz, and a cap on my head, 
Just bidding farewell to the irksome sick bed. 
And endeavouring to tune my enfeebled young lyre 
To a theme which was wont its wild notes to inspire. 
'Tis long since the muse to my aid has descended. 
Or smiling and pleased, her poor votary befriended ; 
Now tired of entreaties, I'll court her no more, 
But alone and unaided her realms I'll explore ; 
So, dear cousin Maggy, condemn not my muse, 
If my verse all its rhyme and its harmony lose, 
For, vex'd with refusals so frequent and long. 
Without her I've dared to engage in a song ; 
And shielded and guided by Clio no more, 
To meet thy Pegasus I tremblingly soar^ 
While confined by the shackles of sickness and pain. 
For many a day on my couch I had lain, 
And in seeking for rest, to my weak frame denied. 
Was tossing fatigued on each sore, aching side, 
There came down a tall spirit of light (as it were,) 
From the realms of the sky and the regions of air ; 
He dispell'd from my bosom its gloom and its dread. 
And kindled the torchlight of hope in their stead. 
Ah ! then, my dear fi'iend, so great was his power. 
He could lighten my pain, and soothe solitude's hour ; 
Ah why then, my cousin, thus brand him with shame. 
Ah why then describe him as " sightless and lame 1" 



POETICAL REMAINS. 251 

All noble and lovely he seem'd to mine eye, 
And when ceasing to view him I ceased with a sigh ! 
His wings were expanded, his eyebeam was fire ! 
And that heart had been old he could fail to inspire. 
But alas ! I should fail, did I strive to portray 
But one half of the graces which round him did play, 
And held captive my soul with their wildering sway ; 
So no more Fll contemplate his charms or thine own, 
But try to inform you how we're getting on. 
Dear mother still sits on her old rocking-chair, 
Either 1 hinking, or smiling, or silent with care ; 
Then plying her needle with industry still. 
Or scribbling and wearing some tarnish'd goosequill. 
Dear Matty is thinking of railroads again. 
And longs to get hold of the rod and the chain. 
He talks of embankments, canals, and high bridges, 
Of steam-cars and tunnels, of swamps and of ditches. 
While dear little Kent, with his well-finger'd book, 
Sits gazing around him with complacent look ; 
But alas ! my dear coz, the poor fellow has lost 
The frequent amusement he valued the most : 
For know, in the midst of our sickness and cares, 
The glass in our parlour was carried up stairs, 
(Other furniture changed — here was station'd a bed,) 
So a mirror much smaller was placed in its stead. 
And my hapless young brother is able no more 
To admire his own beauty and grace as before ; 
He looks at the tempter all rueful and sad. 
And in vain the attempt to attain it is made. 
And with long, disappointed, and sorrowful mien, 
He retires from the spot to conceal his chagrin. 
Oh ! join, my dear cousin, with me, and bewail 
That his sources of pleasure thus early should fail. 
Old Lfio, tired out with his frolic and play. 
Lies quietly sleeping the rest of the day ; 
While pussy is purring contentedly near, 
Devoid of all care and unconscious of fear. 
But enough of this nonsense ! I fain would request 



252 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

That thy cousin again may be honour'd and blest 
By receiving thy musical Nag as a guest : 
His arrival I'll welcome with heartfelt delight, 
And gaze on his beauties from morning till night. 
Dear uncle and cousins I ne'er can forget, 
With sweet little Georgie, his aunty, and Kate, 
Give our love to them all, and yourself must receive 
My warm and my lasting affection. Believe, 
I shall ever remain as I now am to thee. 
Your dear little cousin, and 

Margaret M. D. 
Ballston, 1835. 



STANZAS. 



Though nought but life's sunshine has spread o'er my path, 
Though no real distress has e'er clouded my brow ; 

Though the storms of affliction around me have past. 

And shed o'er me nought save the rainbow's bright glow ; 

Though nursed from the cradle with tenderest care, 
Though shelter'd from all that might grieve or distress ; 

Though life's pathway has blush'd with the fairest of flowers, 
And my heavenly Father has ceased not to bless ; 

Though the chillness of want and the darkness of wo 
From my joyous young spirit have rapidly fled ; 

Though the presence of all whom I cherish and love 
Has not fail'd its sweet influence around me to shed ; 

Still, still there are moments of darkness and grief. 
Which steal o'er my soul like the spirit of wo ; 

I know not their coming, I fell not their cause. 
But o'er my rapt spirit they silently flow. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 253 

I feel for a while as some terrible blow 

Had deprived me of comfort, of friends, and of home ; 
Then depart they as silent, and leave my freed soul 

Again in the bright path of pleasure tc^roam. 

Like clouds in the sky of enjoyment they pass. 
And shed o'er my heart a sensation of sadness ; 

Like clouds do they glide o'er the surface of light, 
And leave me again to the spirit of gladness. 

1835. 



VERSES WRITTEN WHEN THIRTEEN YEARS OF AGE. 
VERSIFICATION FROM OSSIAN. 

Where the stream in its wildness was rushing below, 
And the oak in its greatness was bending above, 

Fell Cathba the brave by the hand of his foe, 
By the hand of Duchomar, his rival in love. 

Duchomar repaired to the cave of the wild. 

Where dwelt in her beauty the star of his breast. 

Where she wander'd alone, nature's sensitive child. 
Knowing little of life but its love and its rest. 

" Oh, beautiful daughter of Cormac the proud ! 

Oh Morna, thou fairest that earth can bestow ! 
Why dwellest thou here, 'neath the dark, angry cloud 1 

Why dwellest thou here where the wild waters flow f 

" The old oak is murmuring aloud in the blast, 
Which ruflies the breast of the far distant sea. 

The storm o'er the heavens his thick veil hath cast, 
And the sky in its sternness is frowning on thee ! 



254 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" But thou art like snow on the black, wither'd heath, 
Thy ringlets are soft as the mist of the night. 

When it winds round the broad hill its delicate wreath. 
By the sun at its parting made gorgeously bright." 

" Whence comest thou, man of the fierce-rolling eye 1" 
Said the beautiful maid of the dark flowing hair ; 

" Oh proud is thy bearing, and haughty, and high. 
And thy brow, there is darkness and gloominess there. 

"Perchance thou hast heard from our foeman of blood; 

Doth Swaran appear on the broad-heaving sea. 
Doth he pour on our coast like the deep raging flood ? 

What tidings from Lochlin, Duchomar, for me ]" 

" No tidings from Lochlin, oh Morna, I bring, 
I come from the chase of the fleet-footed deer ; 

My arrows have sped like the eagle's swift wing. 
And the scathless have fled from my presence for fear. 

" Three deer at my feet in the death-pang have laid,— 
Fair daughter of Cormac, one perish'd for thee ; 

As my soul do I love thee, oh white-handed maid ! 
And queen of my heart ever more shalt thou be !" 

" Duchomar !" the maiden with firmness replied, 
" No portion of love do I cherish for thee ; 

For thy bosom is dark with its passions and pride, 
And fickle thy heart as the wide-rolling sea. 

" But Cathba ! thou only shall Morna adore, 
Thine image alone this fond bosom shall fill ; 

Oh bright are thy locks as the sunbeams of day. 
When the mists of the valley are climbing the hill. 

" Hast thou seen him, Duchomar, young Cathba the brave ? 

Hast thou seen the fair chief on his pathway of light } 
The daughter of Cormac the mighty is here 

To welcome her love when he comes from the fight." 



POETICAL REMAINS. 255 

" Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna !" he cried, 
And fiercely and sullenly gazed on the maid, 

" Then long shalt thou tarry, oh Morna ! for here 
Is the blood of thy chief on Duchomar's dark blade. 

" Cold, cold is thy hero, and slain by my hand. 
His tomb will I rear upon Cromla's dark hills; 

Oh turn on Duchomar thy soft-beaming eye. 

For his arm is like lightning, which withers and kills." 

"Has he fallen in death, the brave offspring of Anim'?" 
The maiden exclaim'd in the accents of wo, 

" The first in the chase, and the foremost in battle, — 
Oh sad is my bosom, and dark was the blow ! 

" And dark is Duchomar, and deadly his vengeance, 

He hath blasted each hope which was bright in the bud ; 

Fell foe unto Morna, oh lend me thy weapon. 
For Cathba I loved, and I still love his blood." 

He yielded the sword to her mourning and sighs, — 
She plunged the red blade in his fast-heaving side ; 

And he lay by the stream, as the blasted oak lies, 
Till raising his hand he indignantly cried, 

" Daughter of blue-shielded Cormac ! thy blow 
Hath cut off my youth from the fame I love best; 

My glory hath fled like a pale wreath of snow, 
And Morna ! thy weapon is cold in my breast. 

" Oh give me to Morna, the maiden of beauty. 

Her dreams in the darkness are fraught with my name, 

My tomb she will raise in the caves on the mountain, 
That hunters may welcome the mark of my fame. 

" She will hang o'er my grave like the mists of the morning, 
And dwell on my memory with fondness and pride, — 

But my bosom is cold, and the lifeblood is ebbing. 
Oh Morna, draw forth the cold blade from my side." 



256 ^"SS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Slowly and sadly she came at his bidding, 

And drew forth the sword from his fast-bleeding breast, 
But he plunged the red steel in her own lovely bosom. 

And laid her fair form on the damp earth to rest. 

Her tresses dishevell'd around her were flowing. 

The blood gurgling fast from the wide-gaping wound, 

And the eye that was bright, and the cheek that was glowing, 
In dimness and pallor and silence were bound. 

Oh Morna ! be thou as the moon, when its light 

Shines forth from her throne on the light fleecy cloud. 

To watch o'er the grave of thy lover at night, 
And wrap his cold tomb in thy silvery shroud. 

1836. 



TO THE MUSE, AFTER MY BROTHER'S DEATH. 

Ah, where art thou wandering, sweet spirit of song, 
Who once bore my rapt fancy on bright wings along ) 
That soaring from earth, with its cares and its pains, 
It might batlie in the light of thy seraph-like strains'? 

Ah, whither art fled in thy beauty and gladness? 

Why leave me in silence thy loss to bewail 1 
Dost thou shrink from the heart that is tinctured with sadness, 

The eye that is dimm'd, or the cheek that is pale 1 

Since last waved around me thy pinions of light, 

The chillness of sorrow hath breathed o'er my home, 

For one joyftil young spirit hath taken its flight. 
One icy-cold form has been borne to the tomb, 

Like a flow'ret of summer, he wither'd and died 
In the springtime of beauty, of youth, and of pride ; 
In the freshness of hope he was borne to his tomb. 
And the home of his kindred is shadow'd with gloom 



POETICAL REMAINS. 257 

Then return to my bosom, thou wakener of joy, 
Oh touch with thy fingers my drooping young lyre ! 

Awake it to pleasures time ne'er can destroy, 
And its chords with a heavenly calmness inspire. 

1836. 



LINES 



ON HEARING SOME PASSAGES READ FROM MRS. HEMANS' 
" RECORDS OF WOMAN." 

Oh, pause not yet, for many an hour 

I'd lend a raptured ear, 
The thrilling, melting sweetness 

Of that seraph strain to hear. 

Dispel not yet the soflen'd joy 

Those gentle tones impart, 
While painting, in such vivid hues, 

The worth of woman's heart. 

Priestess of song ! could we but feel 

The value of thine own, 
How many a soul would bow before 

Thy spirit's lofty throne. 

How many now elated 

With the muse's faintest smile, 
Would turn them to thy radiant shrine. 

And worship there awhile. 

With softest touch thy magic hand 

Awaked the sleeping lyre. 
To all a woman's tenderness. 

And all a poet's fire. 



258 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSOiW 

And proudly soar'd thy lofty mind 
Each earthly thought above, 

And vainly sought thy woman's heart 
For something more to love. 

1836. [Unfinished.] 



AN APPEAL FOR THE BLIND. 



Though thousands pass the mourner by, 
And scorn the suppliant's bended knee, 

"Hope springs exulting" to the eye. 
When sorrow turns its glance on thee. 

For soft compassion's slumbering ray, 
And pity's melting glance is there, 

To chase the sufferer's fears away. 
And soothe to calmness wild despair. 

Oh fan to life the kindling spark, 
Till brightly burns its radiant flame, 

For thou art fortune's favour'd child, 
And I would plead in mercy's name. 

Scan the dark page of life, and say 
If there thy searching eye can find 

A wo more keen, a fate more sad, 

Than that which marks the helpless blind. 

Launch'd forth on life's uncertain path. 
Its best and brightest gift denied. 

No power to pluck its fragrant flowers. 
Or turn its poisonous thorns aside ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 259 

No ray to pierce the gloom within, 
And chase the darkness with its light ; 

No radiant morning dawn to win 
His spirit from the shades of night. 

Nature, whose smile, so pure and fair. 

Casts a bright glow o'er life's dark stream, 

Nature, sweet soother of our care, 
Has not a single smile for him. 

When pale disease, with blighting hand, 

Crushes each budding hope awhile, 
Our eyes can rest in sweet delight 

On love's fond gaze, or friendship's smile. 

Not so with him — his soul, chain'd down 

By doubt, and loneliness, and care, 
Feels but misfortune's chilling frown, 

And broods in darkness and despair. 

Favour'd by heaven ! oh haste thee on, — 
Thy blest Redeemer points the way, — 

Haste o'er the spirit's gloom to pour 
The light of intellectual day. 

Thou canst not raise their drooping lids, 

And wake them to the noonday sun ; 
Thou canst not ope what God hath closed. 

Or cancel aught His hands have done ; 

But oh ! there is a world within. 

More bright, more beautiful than ours ; 

A world which, nursed by culturing hands. 
Will blush with fairest, sweetest flowers. 

And thou canst make that desert mind 

Bloom sweetly as the blushing rose ; 
Thou canst illume that ray less void. 

Till darkness like the day-beam glows. 



260 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Thou cansi implant the brilliant gem 
Of thought, in each benighted soul, 

Till back from radiance so divine 
The clouds of ignorance shall roll. 

Thus shalt thou shed a purer ray 
O'er each beclouded mind withm. 

Than pours the glorious orb of day 
On this dark world of care and sin. 

Prize you a self-approving mind ] 
Then lay thine offering here ; 

The clouded orbits of the blind 
Shall yield a grateful tear. 

Would'st thou the blessings of that band 
Should crowd thy path below 1 

That hearts, enlighten'd by thy hand. 
With gratitude should flow 1 

And would'st thou seek the matchless love 
To God's own children given, 

A conscience calmly resting 'neath 
The fav'ring smiles of Heaven 7 

Then speed thee on in mercy's cause, 
And teach the blind to see ; 

" Hope springs exulting" in the eye 
That sorrowing turns to thee. 

And warmest blessings on thy head, 
Full many a voice shall call ; 

And tears upon thy memory shed. 
Like Hermon's dew shall fall ! 

And when the last dread day has come, 
Which seals thine endless doom ; 

When the freed soul shall seek its home, 
And triumph o'er the tomb ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. ^Ql 

When lowly bends each reverend knee, 

And bows each heart in prayer, 
A band of spirits, saved by thee 

Shall plead thy virtues there. 



1836. 



THE SMILES OF NATURE. 

There's a smile above, and a smile below. 

In the clouds that roll, and the waves that flow : 

Is the heart unchain'd by sorrow's thrall. 

There's a smile of joy and of peace in all ! 

There's a smile on the brow of the waken'd day, 

When he gilds the east with his glowing- ray. 

And a smile on his brow when he sinks to rest. 

Like the saint who expires on his Maker's breast. 

There are pensive smiles on the evening sky, 

Which raise the thoughts to the pure and high, 

Which speak to the soul of its glad release, 

And tune its quivering chords to peace. 

The flow'rets ope with the rising sun. 

And wither and die ere his race is run ; 

Yet a smile is shed o'er their transient bloom. 

Adorning the path to their early tomb. 

There's a smile on the brow of the gorgeous spring, 

When she spreads o'er the valley her radiant wing ; 

As she calms the wild winds with her fragrant breath, 

And decks the glad earth in her beautiful wreath. 

There's a smile on the rose, though 'twill cease to bloom ; 

There's a smile on the stream, though the storm may come ; 

There's a smile in the sky, though the clouds may roll 

Like sin o'er the depths of the human soul ! 

Thus, all that is lovely is form'd for decay. 

But the pure beams of heaven are shed o'er the way. 

There are varied smiles on a mortal's brow. 

Which speak of the soul from its depths below ; 



262 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But they too vanish, when brightest they beam, 

And bury their light in the world's dark stream. 

For the heart of man is the throne of guile, 

And sin can shadow each mortal smile ; 

And the blossoms of light which are planted there, 

Are weaken'd by passion, or wither'd by care. 

There's a haughty smile on the conqueror's brow, 

As the nations of earth at his footstool bow ; 

But that smile is chill as the frozen stream 

Which glitters pale in the moon's cold beam ; 

It speaks of ambition, of pride, and of sin, 

Which rankle and swell the dark bosom within. 

There's a smile on the brow of aspiring man. 

As he pauses the works of his hand to scan, 

And gazes far up to that gorgeous height 

Which is guarded by danger, and terror, and night ; 

But 'tis cold as the bosom from whence it came. 

And is lost in the splendours of grandeur and fame. 

There's a beaming smile upon beauty's brow. 

As the young and the gay at her altar bow ; 

'Tis brilliant, 'tis dazzling, 'tis passing fair, 

But the heart in its freshness is wanting there. 

There's a sunny smile on the infant's lip. 

As he pauses the cup of enjoyment to sip ; 

But a moment more shall have hurried by. 

And that smile will fade from his clouded eye ; 

Some childish sorrow, or childish sin, 

Shall cast its shade o'er the depths within. 

Then where shall we seek for a perfect smile, 

If beauty hath sorrow, and youth hath guile 1 

If the clouds of pride and ambition roll 

O'er the inmost depths of the deathless soul 1 

Oh Nature ! the soul is a spark divine. 

But I turn from its light for a smile of thine ; 

The soul in its greatness must ever endure. 

But thou, in thy freshness, art holy and pure ! 

Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky. 

Which gladden the bosom and rapture the eye ; 

Though transient the radiance, though fleeting the smile. 

They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 263 

But light up the tremulous chords of the soul, 

Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control : 

For the soft smiles of nature around us are cast, 

To light, with their brilliance, the world's dreary waste. 

To call the lone heart from its sadness away. 

And shed o'er its darkness a magical ray ! 

When oppress'd with the cares and the sorrows of life, 

The spirit turns back from its turmoil and strife, 

When it longs to be happy, and sighs to be free. 

Oh Nature, 'tis cheer'd by communion with thee. 

Though the waters may rise, and the sky be o'ercast ; 

Though rages the tempest, and whistles the blast ; 

Though thy brow may be shaded in darkness and fear, 

He can read there a lesson to solace and cheer. 

As the soft rays of sunshine succeed to thy frown ; 

As the rainbow encircles thy brows like a crown ; 

As the tempest rolls off which had reign'd there awhile. 

And bursts forth in radiance the light of thy smile, 

So gently the shadows of sorrow depart, 

And hope dawns again on the desolate heart, 

And points from thy glories to glories more pure, 

From thy fast-fading beauties to charms which endure, 

And leads the rapt soul from its sinful abode. 

To commune for awhile with its Maker and God. 

Oh Nature ! what art thou ? — a mighty lyre, 

Whose strings are swept by an angel choir ; 

Whose music, attuned by a hand divine. 

Thrills a chord in each bosom responsive to thine, 

And whose gentler strain, as it softly swells. 

Soothes many a bosom where sadness dwells ; 

While the joyous and happy, the youthful and gay. 

Pluck the flowers from thy garland and speed on their way. 

Oh, give me the beams of the summer sky, 

Which gladden the bosom, and rapture the eye ; 

Though fleeting the radiance, though transient the smile, 

They speak not of sorrow, they breathe not of guile, 

But light up the tremulous chords of the soul, 

Its virtues to heighten, its sins to control. 



1836. 



264 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

ON A ROSE, 

RECEIVED FROM MISS SEDGWICK. 

And thou art fading too, my rose, 
Thy healthful bloom is fled, 

From thy pale flower the leaves unclose, 
And bows thy pallid head. 

I knew how quickly fades away 
Each brighter, lovelier thing, 

And did not deem that thou couldst stay. 
Thou fairest rose of spring. 

But I have watch'd thy varying hue. 

As fading hour by hour. 
And mourn'd that thou must perish too, 

My lovely, cherish'd flower. 

Oh, 'tis a mournfiil thing to see 
How all that's fair must die ; 

How death will pluck the sweetest bud, 
On his cold breast to lie. 

'Tis sad to mark his icy hand 

Destroy our all that's dear, 
In silent, shivering awe to stand. 

And know his footstep near. 

Yet 'twere unmeet that thou shouldst live. 
When man himself must die ; 

That death should cull each human form, 
And pass the flow'ret by. 

Why do I mourn for thee, my rose. 

When graven in my heart, 
I read a deeper sorrow there 

Than thou could'st e'er impart. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 265 

For one who came from heaven awhile, 

To bless the mourners here ; 
Their joys to hallow with her smile, 

Their sorrows with her tear ; 

Who join'd to all the charms of earth 

The noblest gifts of heaven ; 
To whom the Muses, at her birth, 

Their sweetest smiles had given ; 

Whose eye beam'd forth with fancy's ray. 

And genius pure and high ; 
Whose very soul had seem'd to bathe 

In streams of melody, — 

Was all too like to thee, my rose. 

As fragile and as fair ; 
For, while her eye most brightly beam'd, 

The mark of death was there. 

The cheek which once so sweetly bloom'd, 

Grew pallid with decay ; 
The burning fire withm consumed 

Its tenement of clay. 

Death, as if fearing to destroy. 

Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 
She gave a tear for those she loved, 

Then met him with a smile. 

Oh, who may tell what angel bands 

Convey'd that soul away ; 
And who may tell what tears were shed 

Above that lifeless clay. 

They laid her in the silent grave. 

The moist earth for her bed ! 
And placed the rose and violet 

To blossom o'er her head ! 
18 



266 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON 

But though unseen by mortal eye, 

She seem'd not to depart, 
Her memory linger'd still below 

In every kindred heart ; 

As if her pure, unfetter'd soul 

Return'd to earthly things. 
And spread o'er all her cherish'd scenes 

The shadow of her wings. 

Still thou art like to her, my rose, 

Though bending in decay ; 
The tyrant death can never take 

Thy fragrant breath away. 

Like thee, my rose, she bloom'd and died, 

Like thee, her life was brief; 
And to her name remembrance clung, 
Like perfume to thy leaf. 

But when the torch of memory burn'd 
With fainter, feebler flame. 

The pen of Sedgwick spread anew 
A lustre round her name. 

For this our daily gratitude 

in raptures shall ascend ; 
For this a sister's blessings 

And a mother's prayer shall blend. 

And if the Lord of heaven permits 

His sainted ones to know 
The varied scenes of joy and grief 

Which mark the world below ; 

Then she will bend her angel form. 
With heavenly raptures fired, 

And bless the hand which penn'd the tale. 
The genius which inspired. 

1837. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 267 



THE CHURCH-GOING BELL. 

How sweet is the sound of the church-going bell 

When it bursts on the ear with its full rich swell, 

So slow and so solemn it peals through the air, 

It seems as if calling the soul to prepare 

To meet in his temple, so holy and pure, 

The Saviour, whose presence shall ever endure ; 

To unburthen the conscience — devoutly to kneel — 

To pray for the pardon of sins which we feel ; 

Before our almighty Preserver to bow, 

With a purified soul, and a heart humbled low. 

1837. [Unfinished.] 



FRAGMENT. 

Oh, for a something more than this, 

To fill the void within my breast, 
A sweet reality of bliss, 

A something bright but unexpress'd. 

My spirit longs for something higherj 
Than life's dull stream can e'er supply ; 

Something to feed this inward fire, 

This spark, which never more can die. 

I'd dwell with all that nature forms 

Of wild or beautiful or gay. 
Bow, when she clothes the heaven with storms. 

And join her in her frolic play. 

I'd hold companionship with all 

Of pure, or noble, or divine ; 
With glowing heart adoring fall. 

And kneel at nature's sylvan shrine. 



268 MJ^^ MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

My soul is like a broken lyre, 
Whose loudest, sweetest chord is gone, 

A note half trembling on the wire, 
A heart that wants an echoing tone. 

Where shall I find this shadowy bliss, 
This shapeless phantom of my mind ? 

This something words can ne'er express. 
So vague, so faint, so undefined T 

Language ! thou never canst portray 
The fancies floating o'er my soul, 

Thou ne'er canst chase the clouds away, 
Which o'er my changing visions roll. 

1837. 



FRAGMENT. 

Oh, I have gazed on forms of light, 
Till life seem'd ebbing in a tear. 

Till in that fleeting space of sight, 
Were merged the feelings of a year. 

And I have heard the voice of song, 
Till my full heart gush'd wild and free, 

And my rapt soul would float along 
As if on waves of melody. 

But while I glow'd at beauty's glance, 
I long'd to feel a deeper thrill, 

And while I heard that dying strain, 
I sigh'd for something sweeter still. 

I have been happy, and my soul 

Free from each sorrow, care, regret. 

Yet ever in those hours of bliss, 
I long'd to find them happier yet. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 269 

Oft o'er the darkness of my mind, 

Some meteor thought has glanced at will ; 

'Twas bright — but ever have I sigh'd 
To find a fancy brighter still. 

Why are these restless, vain desires, 
Which always grasp at something more 

To feed the spirit's hidden fires. 

Which burn unseen, unnoticed soar 1 

Well might the heathen sage have known 
That earth must fail the soul to bind, 

That life, and life's tame joys alone. 
Could never chain the ethereal mind. 



1837. 



WRITTEN WHEN BETWEEN FOURTEEN AND FIFTEEN. 
ON RETURNING TO BALLSTON, 

AFTER THE DEATH OF A LITTLE BROTHER. 

Yes ! this is home ! the home we loved before. 
The dear retreat we hope to leave no more ! 
Since first we mourn'd thy calm enjoyments fled, 
Two weary years with silent steps have sped ; 
And ah ! in that short space what scenes have past ! 
Death has been with us since we saw thee last ! 
Yes ! robed in gloom he came, the tyrant Death, 
To blight our fairest with his chilling breath. 
He stole along beneath the smiles of spring. 
When youthful hearts to life most fondly cling ; 
The loveliest flowers were blushing 'neath his tread ; 
He stole the sweetest of them all, and fled ! 
In vain, my brother, now we look for thee. 
Thy form elastic, and thy step of glee ; 



270 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

In vain we strove our thoughts from thee to win, 

Our hearts recoiling- feel the void within. 

Alas ! alas ! thou dear and cherish'd one, 

How soon on earth thy tranquil course was run ! 

Like some bright stream that pours its waves to-day. 

Glides gently on, and vanishes away ! 

A brief, brief time has pass'd with giant stride. 

And thou hast lived, hast suffer'd, and hast died ! 

Memory, unmindful of the lapse between. 

Paints forth in vivid hues that closing scene ; 

The more we gaze, we feel its truth the more, 

And live in thought those painful moments o'er. 

We see his form upon its couch of pain. 

We hear his soft and trembling voice again ; 

Grief forcing from our lips the shuddering groan, 

And sweet composure breathing from his own. 

The earth was clothed in spring's enlivening hue, 

The faded buds were bursting forth anew, 

The birds were heard in sweet, melodious strain, 

And Nature woke to radiant life again. 

While he, too fragile for this world of strife, 

Prepared to blossom in a holier life. 

The glowing spring of heaven's eternal year 

W^as usher'd in by all that's loveliest here ; 

Earth, robed in Nature's fairest, best array, 

Led on his fluttering soul to purer day. 

The soft winds fann'd him where his couch was laid, 

On his hot brow the cooling breezes play'd, 

And in his hand (fit type of early death,) 

Was clasp'd a faded flower, a wither'd wreath. 

Hush'd was each bursting groan, each tumult wild. 

Around the deathbed of that darling child ; 

O'er each sad heart an awful trembling crept ; 

E'en grief, o'erpower'd, a solemn stillness kept. 

His soul, beyond the grasp of care and strife, 

Stood on the confines of a deathless life ; 

His gaze was fix'd upon * * * 

The lapse between eternity and time ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 271 

His eye was beaming- with intenser light, 

As broke new glories on his fading sight. 

Oh, who may tell that hour of thrilling dread, 

That midnight vigil by his dymg bed! 

When his young spirit left its shrine of clay, 

And sped through worlds unknown its pathless way ! 

Methinks e'en now I see his speaking face. 

Death on his brow, and in his bosom peace. 

When soft he whisper'd, while the accents fell 

Like the soft murmurings of the passing gale, 

While his cheek glow'd with death's intensest bloom, 

"Mother ! dear mother ! the last hour has come !" 

Yes ! thy last hour of pain, thou darling boy. 

The opening scene to endless years of joy ! 

Oh, never more, till memory's sun shall set. 

Can I that thrilling scene of death forget ! 

His earnest gaze, his bright and glowing cheek 

Beaming with thoughts his tongue no more could speak ; 

His soul just hastening to the realms on high. 

While all earth's love was kindling in his eye. 

Alas ! it fades, that deep, unearthly glow. 

And the cold drops stand quivering on his brow. 

Death has o'ercome ! 'tis nature's closing strife, 

The last, last struggle of departing life ! 

List to that sigh ! the poison'd shaft has sped, 

And his young spirit to its home hath fled. 

The silver chord is broke, dissolved the tie ! 

Alas ! alas ! how all that's fair must die ! 

Hark to that heavenly strain, so loud, so clear. 

Rising so sweet on fancy's listening ear ! 

Hark ! 'tis an angel's song, a voice of glee, 

A welcome to the soul, unchain'd and free ! 

On, on it flows in ceaseless tides again, 

Till the rapt spirit echoes to the strain, 

Till on the wings of song it soars away. 

To track its kindred soul through realms of day ! 

Hark to that lyre, more sweet than all beside ; 

Mother ! 'tis hers ! oh, weep not that she died ! 



272 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Hark to that voice, so melting- and so clear, 
The same, my father, thou wert wont to hear ! 
And mark that train of infant spirits come 
To lead their brother to his glorious home ! 
All, all are yours ! and all shall gather there, 
To lead your spirits from this world of care ; 
Then weep no more ; your darling son is blest, 
And his young soul has enter'd into rest. 

1837. 



TWILIGHT. 

Twilight ! sweet hour of peace, 
Now art thou stealing on ; 
Cease from thy tumult, thought ! and fancy, cease I 
Day and its cares have gone ! 
Mysterious hour, 
Thy magic power 
Steals o'er my heart like music's softest tone. 

The golden sunset hues 
Are fading in the west ; 
The gorgeous clouds their brighter radiance lose, 
Folded on evening's breast. 

So doth each wayward thought, 
From fancy's altar caught. 
Fade like thy tints, and muse itself to rest. 

Cold must that bosom be, 
Which never felt thy power, 
Which never thrill'd with tender melody 
At this bewitching hour ; 
When nature's gentle art 
Enchains the pensive heart ; 
When the breeze sinks to rest, and shuts the fragrant 
flower. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 273 

It is the hour for pensive thought, 
For memory of the past, 
For sadden'd joy, for chasten'd hope 
Of brighter scenes at last ; 
The soul should raise 
Its hymn of praise. 
That calm so sweet on life's dull stream is cast. 

Wearied with care, how sweet to hail 
Thy shadowy, calm repose, 
When all is silent but the whispering gale 
Which greets the sleeping rose; 
When, as thy shadows blend. 
The trembling thoughts ascend. 
And borne aloft, the gates of heaven unclose. 

Forth from the warm recess 
The chain'd affections flow, 
And peace, and love, and tranquil happiness 
Their mingled joys bestow ; 
Charm'd by thy mystic spell, 
The purer feelings swell. 
The nobler powers revive, expand, and glow. 

1837. 



ON THE DEPARTURE OF A BROTHER. 

Brother ! I need no pencill'd form 
To bring back glowing thoughts of thee ; 

Love's pencil, bathed in hues of light, 
Shall trace the page of memory. 

There shall they live, each look or smile, 
Each gentler word, or look, or tone ; 

Fancy shall view love's work the while, 
And add rich colouring of her own. 



274 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

How throbb'd my heart with sweet delight, 
When hope beheld thy near return ! 

Nor thought that day precedes the night, 
And hearts the happiest soonest mourn. 

Why knew I not that joy like mine 
Was never, never form'd to last 1 

That pleasures only live to die, 

And, ere we feel them, ours are past I 

Oh ! turn not from my strain away. 
Nor scorn it, simple though it be ! 

It is a sister's sorrowing lay, 
A token of her love for thee. 

Oh ! that a prophet's eye were mine, 
To read the shrouded future o'er ! 

Oh ! that the glimmering lamp of time 
Could cast its mystic rays before ! 

Then would I trace thy devious way 
Along the chequer'd path of life ; 

Discern each pure, reviving ray, 

And mark each changing scene of strife. 

Oh ! if a sister's partial hand 

Could weave the web of fate for thee, 

Pleasure should wave her mystic wand. 
And all thy life be harmony. 

Peace, foolish heart ! a wiser Power 

Thy hand shall guide, thy footsteps lead; 

Each bitter grief, each rapturous hour 
By His unerring will decreed. 

Farewell, my brother ! and believe. 
Through every scene of weal or wo, 

A sister's heart with thine shall grieve. 
With thine in rapturous joy shall glow. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 375 

Each morn and eve a mother's prayer 
With mine shall seek the courts above : 

A mother's blessings rest on thee, 
Embalm'd in all a mother's love. 



1837. 



LINES 



WRITTEN AFTER READING ACCOUNTS OF THE DEATH OF 
MARTYRS. 

Speak not of life, I could not bear 
A life of foul disgrace to share ! 
Wealth, fame, or honour's fleeting breath. 
What are they to this glorious death 1 
Think ye a kingdom back could win 
My spirit to this world of sin 1 
Think ye a few more years of strife 
Could draw me from eternal life 1 — 
Dark is the path to Canaan's shore, 
But Jesus trod the path before ! 
He hath illumed the grave for me, — 
My Saviour ! I will die for thee ! 
Yes ! lead me forth ; in faith secure. 
The keenest anguish I'll endure! 
And while my body feeds the flame, 
My soul its bright reward shall claim ! 
Soon shall these earthly bonds decay, 
This trembling frame return to clay, 
And earth, enrobed in clouds of night, 
Shall fade for ever from my sight. 
But who would mourn a home like this, 
When gather'd to that home of bliss 1 
But there is many a tender tie 
Would shake my firm resolve to die ; 



276 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Cords which entwine my longing heart, 

Aifection's death alone can part. 

Jesus, forgive each faltering thought, 

Which weaker, earthlier love hath taught ; 

Forgive the tears which struggling flow 

To view a mother's, sister's wo. 

Forgive this grief, though weak it be, 

Nor deem my spirit turn'd from thee ! 

Raise my unworthy soul above 

The tempting wiles of earthly love! 

Soon shall each torturing pang be o'er, 

And tears like these shall flow no more ; 

And those I love so deeply here 

Shall meet me in yon heavenly sphere. 

Love ! what have I, compared to thine 1 

Love, pure, ineffable, divine ! 

Love which could bring a God below 

To taste a mortal's cup of wo ; 

To weep in agony, to sigh. 

To bear a nation's scorn — to die ! 

Oh, love ! undying, godlike, free, 

All else is swallow'd up in thee. 

Soon shall I also soar above, 

To dwell with thee, for " God is love.'''* 

Yes ! pile the blazing fagots high. 

Till the bright flames salute the sky ! 

From each devouring pile you raise. 

Shall soar a hymn of love and praise, 

And the firm stake you rear for me, 

The gate to endless life shall be. 

But oh, ye frail, deluded train. 

How will ye meet your Lord again ! 

" Father ! their crimes in mercy view ! 

Forgive, they know not what they do !" 

1837, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 377 



ON READING COWPER'S POEMS. 

Charm'd with thy verse, oh bard, I fain would raise 

A feeble tribute teeming with thy praise ; 

For thee, oh Cowper, touch the trembling string, 

And breathe the thoughts the muse inspires to shig ; 

For thee, whose soul delighted oft to roam 

O'er the pure realms of thine eternal home ; 

Who, scorning folly's smile, or fancy's dream, 

Made truth thy guide and piety thy theme ; 

Who loved to soar where heaven's own glories shine, 

And tuned the lyre to harmonies divine ! 

Whose strains, when pour'd by faith's directing voice, 

Made doubt recede, and certainty rejoice ; 

Whose lofty verse, by sterner justice led. 

Made unbelievers trembling, shrink with dread. 

Oh that each bard, from earthborn passions free, 

Might tread the path thus nobly mark'd by thee, 

And teaching song to plead in virtue's cause, 

Might win like thee, a grateful world's applause ! 

Knowing from whence thy matchless talents came, 

Thou fanned'st to purer life the kindling flame. 

And breathing all thy thoughts in numbers sweet. 

Laid them adoring at thy Maker's feet. 

Thus teaching man that all his nobler lays 

Should rise o'erflowing with that Maker's praise ; 

That his enraptured muse should firmly own 

The claims of truth, and faith, and love alone! 

That he, who feels within the fire divine. 

Should nurse the flame to grace God's holy shrine. 

Let those who bask in passion's burning ray. 

Who own no rule but fancy's changefiil sway. 

Who quench their burning thirst in folly's stream, 

And waste their genius on each grosser theme. 

Let them turn back on life's tumultuous sea. 

And humbly gazing, learn this truth from thee ; 



278 ^"SS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

That virtue's hand the poet's lamp must trim. 
And its clear light, unwavering, point to Him, 
Or all its brilliance shall have glow'd in vain, 
And hours misspent shall win him years of pain. 

1837. 



STANZAS. 



Oh, who may tell the joy, the bliss, 

Which o'er the realm of fancy streams ; 

The varied scenes of light and life. 

Which deck the poet's world of dreams 1 

The ransom'd soul may speed its flight, 
To live and grow in realms above ; 

May bathe in floods of endless light, 
And live eternal years of love. 

But oh, what voice hath e'er reveal'd 
The glories of that blest abode. 

Save the faint whisperings of the soul, 
The mystic monitors of God ] 

Thus may the poet's spirit dance 

And revel in his world of joy. 
May form creations at a glance. 

And myriads at a word destroy. 

But mortal ear can never hear 
The music of that seraph band ; 

Nought save the faint, unearthly tones 
Just wafted from that spirit-land. 

None but the poet's soul can know 
The wild and wondrous beauty there ; 

The streams of light, which ever flow, 
The ever music-breathing air. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 279 

His spirit seeks this heaven awhile, 
Entranced in glowing dreams of bliss ; 

Lives in the muses' hallow'd smile, 
And bathes in founts of happiness. 

Then, when he sinks to earth again, 
His hand awakes the trembling lyre, 

He strives to breathe a burning strain, 
Kindled at fancy's altar-fire. 

But oh, how frail the trembling notes, 
Compared * * * 



1837. 



FRAGMENT. 

'TwAS the song of the evening spirit ! it stole, 

Like a stream of delight, o'er the listening soul, 

And the passions of earth — joy, or sorrow, or pain — 

Were absorb'd in the notes of that heavenly strain. 

My heart seem'd to pause as the spirit came nigh. 

And, array'd in its garment of music, pass'd by ! 

" I am coming, oh earth ! I am hasting away. 

With my star-spangled crown and my mantle of gray ; 

I have come from my bower in the regions of light, 

To recline on the breast of my parent, night ! 

To soften the gloom in her mournful eye. 

And guide her steps through the darken'd sky ! 

I come to the earth in my mystic array; 

Rest, rest from the toils and the cares of the day ! 

I will lull each discordant emotion to sleep. 

As I hush the wild waves of the turbulent deep, 

And my watch o'er the couch of their slumbers I keep. 

The streams murmur ' peace,' as I steal through the sky, 

And hush'd are the winds, which swept fitfully by ; 



280 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The bee nestles down on the breast of the rose, 
And the wild birds of summer are seeking repose. 
All nature salutes me, so solemn, so fair, 
And a glad shout of welcome is borne on the air. 
Now, now is the moment, and here is the way 
For the spirit to mount from its temple of clay, 
And soar on my pinions to regions sublime. 
Beyond the broad flight of the giant- wing'd Time." 

1837. [Unfinished.] 



IMITATION OF A SCOTCH BALLAD. 

Sweets of the glowing spring 

Float on the air ; 
Gaily the birdies sing, 

Banishin' care. 
Softly the burnies flow, 
Gently the breezes blow, 
I to my Jeanie, oh, 

Gaily repair. 

Fair as the simmer flower 

Sipp'd by the bee ; 
Blithe as the weenie birds 

Singin' their glee ; 
Fresh as the drappin' dew, 
Pure as the gowan's hue, 
Ever gay an' ever true. 

Is Jeanie to me. 

Bright as the gowden beam 

Gildin' the morn ; 
Sweet as the simmer's wind 

Wavin' the corn ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 281 

Sic is my Jeanie, oh, 
Stainless as winter snow, 
Given to the warld below 
Life to adorn. 

Joy to thee, bonnie lass, 

Gently an' braw. 
Thou, 'mang the fairest. 

Art fairer than a' ; 
Still mayst thou gladsome be. 
Ever from sorrow free, 
Blessings upon thine e'e 

Numberless fa'. 

Grief may bedim the while 

Joy's glowing flame ; 
Sorrow may steal the smile 

From its sweet hame ; 
But the sweet flow'ret love. 
Native of heaven above, 
In the dark storm shall prove 

Ever the same. 



ERE THOU DIDST FORM. 

Ere thou didst form this teemmg earth. 
Or gave these mighty mountains birth ; 
Ere mortal press'd this yielding sod ; 
From everlasting thou art God ! 

Thousands of years, when pass'd away, 
Seem, in thy sight, one fleeting day ; 
Ages, where man may live and die. 
An hour to thy eternity ! 
19 



282 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Years roll on with a rolling- stream, 
They fade like shadows in a dream ! 
Like grass, which springs at morning light, 
And withers ere the close of night ! 

For thou art mighty in thine ire — 
Thy wrath consumes like flaming fire ; 
And, spread before thy searching eye, 
Our sins in dreadful order lie. 

1837. [Unfinished.! 



A FRAGMENT. 

I SEE her seraph form, her flowing hair, 

Her brow and cheek so exquisitely fair ; 

Her smiling lips, her dark eyes' radiant beam — 

A dream 1 — this is not, cannot be a dream ! 

They tell me 'tis some wild and phrensied thought, 

Some glowing spark from fancy's altar caught ; 

Some glowing spirit, fancied and unknown. 

Which reigns supreme in reason's vanquish'd throne. 

1837. 



FRAGMENT OF THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. 

Thus thought I, while in pensive mood. 
Beneath a frowning cliff I stood, 
And mark'd the autumn sun decline 
Above the broad and heaving Rhine ! 
Oh, 'twas a rich and gorgeous sight, 
But all too solemn to be bright. 



POETICAL REMAINS f.g3 

A saddening- hue was o'er it cast, 
Which seem'd to tell of glories past, 
Of summer ripen'd to decay, 
Of ancient splendours past away. 
The parting- monarch's dying- g-low 
Fell on the restless waves below, 
As if an angel's hand had dyed 
With hues from heaven the sparkling tide. 
The fleeting ray an instant beam'd, 
O'er hill, and dale, and rock it stream'd. 
Till the dark, time-defying- cliiF, 
Seem'd glowing, melting into life. 
And the broad scene, so sad and wild, 
Beneath its gentle influence smiled, 
As care lifts up its sorrowing- eye, 
When hope has cast a sunbeam by ; 
Then swiftly fading, glided o'er. 
And left it lonely as before. 
The distant hills of sombre blue. 
Tinged with that rich and varying- hue, 
Now darker and more mingled grew, 
While nearer rose so wild and bold 
The rugged cliffs of Odenwald. 
The Rhine, enrobed in shadows gray, 

Roll'd on its giant path. 
Lashing the rocks which barr'd its way. 
Now curling graceful, as in play. 

Now roaring, as in wrath. 
The forests murmur'd, bow'd, and slept. 
But on the mighty river swept, 
As in impatient haste to gain 
The gentler waters of the Maine, 
Which flow'd along in stately pride, 
To mingle with its parent tide. 
But where the kindred waters meet, 

A rugged cliff" there stood ; 
It rose above the eddying waves, 
With hanging rocks and yawning caves, 

The guardian of the flood ; 



284 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Fit haunt it seem'd for giant forms 

Of wild, unearthly mould, 
The spirits of the winds and storms 

Their mystic rites to hold. 
And o'er its rugged brow was spread 

The forest moss and flower, 
And, 'mid a grove of solemn firs, 

Arose aruin'd tower; 
The ivied walls and turrets gray 
Seem'd vainly struggling with decay, 
Still frowning o'er the restless tide. 
An emblem of unyielding pride. 
All, all was desolate and lone ; — 
Beside its walls of crumbling stone 
A giant beech its arms had thrown. 

And ivy on its threshold grew; 
The shouts of mirth, the cries of strife, 
The varied sounds of bustling life. 

Its walls no longer knew ; 
The moaning winds rush'd fitful by, 
Blent with the owlet's dismal cry, 
And every sad and mournful blast 
Seem'd sadly wailing for the past ! 
Scarce could the wandering eye discern 
In that rude pile, so dark and stern. 
The remnants of its lofly wall. 
The area of its spacious hall. 
Or trace in masses rude and steep, 
What once was barbacan and keep. 

***** 
" Roll back, thou tide of time !" and bring 

The faded visions of the past, 
And o'er the bard's enchanted string 

Thy veil of shadowy softness cast ! 
Fancy, unfold thy swiftest wing ! 

Thou dreary present, be no more ! 
And I will tune my heart to sing 

In simple strains the days of yore ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 335 

These ruin'd walls again shall rise 

In all their ancient pride and power, 
Again the gorgeous banner float 

In triumph from the stately tower ! 
The moss, the thorn, the poisonous weed 

Shall vanish from the cheerfril hearth, 
And the rude hall again resound 

With shouts of revelry and mirth ! 
Again beside that ruin'd gate 

The guard shall pace his weary round, 
Again the warder's midnight cry 

Within its massive turrets sound ; 
Again the bright convivial band 

Shall close around its joyous hearth, 
Again the vaulted halls return 

The shouts of revelry and mirth. 
Oh, I could tell of thrilling scenes 

Enacted in that lone retreat ; 
How its paved courts have echoed back 

The clanking tread of armed feet ; 
How savage chiefs and knights of old. 
With forms and souls of iron mould, 
Have gather'd round this mountain hold. 

And form'd their councils here. 
Then rush'd upon the field below, 

With clashing sword and spear; 
And I could tell of princely dames. 

Of powerfril lords and highborn peers. 
Who dream'd not that their honour'd names 

Could perish in the lapse of years. 
Or only live at times to aid 

The wandering minstrel's random song ; 
An old traditionary tale 

To float on memory's tide along ; 
And I could sing full many a strain 

Would call the lifeblood from the cheek. 
What fancy's eye would shrink to see. 

And boldest tongue would fear to speak. 



286 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But I will leave to nobler hands 

The framing of those mystic lays, 
And only weave a simple tale 

Of later and of gentler days. 
When daring souls of daring deeds 

Gave place to peaceful knights and squires. 
And warlike gatherings on the field 

To feastings round their evening fires; 
When nought remain'd of olden times, 

Of strife and rivalry and blood, 
Save where some sterner barons held 

The remnants of an ancient feud. 

'Twas morning, and the shades of night 
Roll'd backward from her brow of light, 
As with majestic step she came. 
With dewy locks and eyes of flame. 
Her wreath of dancing light to twine 
On the broad bosom of the Rhine. 
The scene beneath her spread was rife 
With sights and sounds of bustling life. 
Of joyful shouts, and glad halloo, 
And quick steps running to and fro. 
The castle walls, so dark and gray. 
Tinged with the morning's cheerful ray, 
Seem'd revelling their gloom away, 
While from the court came, long and loud, 
The shouts of an assembled crowd, 
And on the mountain echoes borne, 
Peal'd out the huntsman's mellow horn. 
The clanking drawbridge fell across 
The sparkling waters of the foss, 
And servants hurried here and there 
With bustling and important air ; 
Oft from the forest would appear 
A group that bore the slaughter'd deer, 
And distant shouts would faintly tell, 
As some new victim bleeding fell. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 287 

Light skiffs were floating down the Rhine, 

Laden with casks of choicest wine, 

And oarsmen bore the precious freight 

For entrance to the postern gate. 

Oft on the noisy tide along 

The minstrel pour'd his careless song, 

And all without was bustling glee. 

Within, the castle hall was graced 

With oaken tables, closely placed, 

In preparation for a feast; 

The ancient armour on the wall 

Was cleansed, and gilt, and burnish'd all ; 

And helm, and casque, and corslet shone 

Like mirrors in the morning sun ; 

Oh, could the warlike forms which wore 

Those garments grim in days of yore. 

Come to their mountahi home once more. 

How would they frown on scene so gay, 

And sigh for spirits past away ! 

Beside the hearthstone of his hall. 
The lord and master of them all, 
The owner of this proud domain, 
Stood, gazing on his menial train. 
His ample robes were rich and gay. 
His locks were slightly tinged with gray, 
His eye, beneath its darker shroud. 
Glanced, like a sunbeam fi'om a cloud. 
Hope realized and love's warm glow 
Seem'd mingling o'er his furrow'd brow. 
And smiles of pleasure told in part 
The inward gladness of his heart. 
But ever and anon there stole 
Some softer feeling o'er his soul. 
And something like a tear would roll 
Unnoticed down his furrow'd cheek, — 
The child of thoughts he could not speak. 



288 MfSS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Why ring's the old castle with gladness this mom 1 
Why echoes the wood with the blithe hunter*s horn 1 
Why standeth their lord with his train at his side, 
And his eye beaming lightly with gratified prided 
This day it shall close o'er his doubts and his fears. 
It shall witness the realized wishes of years, 
And his name shall be join'd, by the dearest of ties, 
To the only one worthy so brilliant a prize, 
Whose fathers of old were his father's allies. 
Why stealeth the teardrop so sad to his eye 1 
Why bursts from his bosom the half-smother'd sigh 1 
Alas, for that father ! this day he must part 
From the pride of his household, the joy of his heart ; 
No more may he gaze on his beautiful child, 
Whose step ever bounded, whose lip ever smiled ;, 
Who cast such a charm o'er his wild mountain life 
As the sunbeam may throw o'er the dark frowning cliff. 
Now read ye the cause of the joyful array ] 
'Tis to welcome the lord of this festival day ; 
For he comes, with his glittering train by his side, 
To claim of her father his beautiful bride. 



1837. 



ELEGY UPON LEO, AN OLD HOUSE-DOG. 

Thou poor old dog ! too long affection's tongue 
Hath left thy merits and thy death unsung ; 
Too long the muse hath sought for themes of fame, 
And left untold thy well-remember'd name ; 
And though that name hath lived on memory's leaf. 
Has touch'd for thee no thrilling chords of grief 
Thou dear old dog ! thou joy of childish years ! 
Here let me shed for thee my heartfelt tears ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 289 

Here let me turn from life's cold cares aside, 
And weep that thou, my faithful friend, hast died. 
Oh that no tears less pure might e'er be shed, 
Than those which mourn a loved companion dead ! 
This is a world where faithful hearts are few, 
Where love too oft is vain, too oft untrue ; 
And when some cherish'd form to earth is borne, 
O'er fond affection's sever'd chain we mourn ; 
Thus I for thee, that one more friend hath gone, 
Who, though a dog, could love for love alone. 
Thou dear old friend ! on memory's starlit tide, 
Link'd with a sister's name thy name shall glide ; 
And when for her ours tears flow fast and free, 
Our hearts shall breathe a ling'ring sigh for thee ; 
For thee, that sister's dearest, earliest pet, 
Whom even when dying she remember'd yet. 
Thou wast her playmate in each childish hour, 
When her light footsteps sprang from flower to flower ; 
When not a cloud on life's fair surface lay, 
And joys alternate chased the hours away ; 
When her young heart beat high with infant glee. 
And fondly sought to share those joys with thee. 
And when youth's star arose on childhood's morn, 
And loftier thoughts on time's dark wing were borne ; 
When hope look'd forward with exulting eye, 
And fear, the coward, still crouch'd trembling nigh ; 
When long had pass'd those hours of infant glee. 
Still, still she loved, and still would sport with thee. 

1837. [Unfinished.] 



MORNING. 

How calm, how beautiful a scene is this ! 
When nature, waking from her silent sleep. 
Bursts forth in light, and harmony, and joy ! 



290 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

When earth, and sky, and air are glowing all 

With gaiety and life, and pensive shades 

Of morning loveliness are cast around ! 

The purple clouds, so streak'd M^ith crimson light, 

Bespeak the coming of majestic day ; 

Mark how the crimson grows more crimson still, 

While ever and anon a golden beam 

Seems darting out its radiance ! 

Herald of day ! where is that mighty form 

Which clothes you all in splendour, and around 

Your colourless, pale forms spreads the bright hues 

Of heaven ] He cometh from his gorgeous couch. 

And gilds the bosom of the glowing east, 

1837. 



LINES 



WRITTEN AFTER SHE BEGAN TO FEAR THAT HER 
DISEASE WAS PAST REMEDY. 

I ONCE thought life was beautiful, 

I once thought life was fair. 
Nor deem'd that all its light could fade 

And leave but darkness there. 

But now I know it could not last — 

The fairy dream has fled ! 
Though thirteen summers scarce have past 

Above this youthful head. 

Yes, life — 'twas all a dream — but now 

I see thee as thou art ; 
I see how slight a thing can shade 

The sunshme of the heart. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 291 

I see that all thy brightest hours, 

Unmark'd, have pass'd away ; 
And now I feel how sweet they were, 

I cannot bid them stay. 

In childish love or childish play 

My happiest hours were spent, 
While scarce my infant tongue could say 

What joy or pleasure meant 

And now, when my young heart looks up. 

Life's gayest smiles to meet ; 
Now, when in youth her brightest charms 

Would seem so doubly sweet ; 

Now fade the dreams which bound my soul 

As with the chains of truth ; 
Oh that those dreams had stay'd awhile, 

To vanish with my youth ! 

Oh ! once did hope look sweetly down, 

To check each rising sigh ; 
But disappointment's iron frown 

Has dimm'd her sparkling eye. 

And once I loved a brother too, 

Our youngest and our best, 
But death's unerring arrow sped. 

And laid him down to rest. 

***** 

***** 
* * * * 

But now I know those hours of peace 

Were never form'd to last ; 
That those fair days of guileless joy 

Are past — for ever past ! 



January, 1&37. 



292 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



TO MY OLD HOME AT PLATTSBURG. 

That dear old home, where pass'd my childhood's years, 

Where fond affection wiped my infant tears ; - 

Where first 1 learn'd from whence my blessings came, 

And lisp'd, in faltering tones, a mother's name ; 

That cherish'd home, where memory fondly clings. 

Where eager fancy spreads her soaring wings ; 

Around whose scenes my thoughts delight to stray, 

And pass the hours in pleasing dreams away. 

Oh ! shall I ne'er behold thy waves again, 

My native lake, my beautiful Cham plain 7 

Shall I no more above thy ripples bend 

In sweet communion with my childhood's friend 1 

Shall I no more behold thy rolling wave, 

The patriot's cradle and the warrior's grave ? 

Thy banks, illumined by the sun's last glow^ 

Thine islets, mirror'd in the waves below 1 

Back, back, thou present — robed in shadows lie ! 

And rise the past before my raptured eye ! 

Fancy shall gild the frowning lapse between, 

And memory's hand shall paint the glowing scene ; 

And I shall view my much-loved home again, 

My native village and my sweet Champlain, 

With former friends retrace my footsteps o'er, 

And muse delighted on thy verdant shore. 

Alas ! the vision fades, the dream is past ; 

Dissolved the spell by sportive fancy cast ! 

Why, why should thus our brightest dreams depart, 

And scenes illusive cheat the sorrowing heart ] 

Where'er through future life my footsteps roam, 

I ne'er shall find a spot like thee, my home ! 

With all my joys the thoughts of thee shall blend, 

And join'd with thee shall rise my childhood's friend ! 



1837. 



POETICAL REMAIA^S. 293 



FAME. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Oh Fame ! thou trumpeter of dead men's deeds ! 
Thou idol of the heart, thou empty flatterer, 
That, like the heathen of the Nile, embalmest 
Those that thou deign'st to love, and ever hiding- 
Their vices and their follies v^^ith a veil 
Of soft concealment, doth exalt them high 
Above the common crovi^d, crovvn'd with thy might. 
That future years may copy and admire. 
Thou bright, alluring dream ! thou dazzling star ! 
Where shall we find thee ! Thou art call'd 
Fickle and vain, and worthless of pursuit, 
Yet ***** 

1838. 



ON MY MOTHER'S FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY. 

Yes, mother, fifty years have fled, 
With rapid footsteps o'er thy head ; 
Have pass'd with all their motley train, 
And left thee on thy couch of pain ! 
How many smiles, and sighs, and tears, 
How many hopes, and doubts, and fears, 
Have vanish'd with that lapse of years ! 
Though past, those hours of pain and grief 
Have left their trace on memory's leaf; 
Have stamp'd their footprints on the heart. 
In lines which never can depart; 
Their influence on the mind must be 
As endless as eternity. 
Years, ages, to oblivion roll. 
Their memory forms the deathless soul ; 
They leave their impress as they go, 
And shape the mind for joy or wo ! 



294 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Yes, mother, fifty years have past, 
And brought thee to their close at last. 
Oh that we all could gaze, like thee, 
Back on that dark and tideless sea, 
And 'mid its varied records find 
A heart at ease vt^ith all mankind, 
A firm and self-approving mind ! 
Grief, that had broken hearts less fine, 
Hath only served to strengthen thine ; 
Time, that doth chill the fancy's play, 
Hath kindled thine w^ith purer ray ; 
And stern disease, whose icy dart 
Hath power to chill the shrinking heart. 
Has left thine warm with love and truth, 
As in the halcyon days of youth. 
Oh turn not from the meed of praise 
A daughter's willing justice pays ; 
But greet with smiles of love again 
This tribute of a daughter's pen. 

1838. 



THE STORM HATH PASSED BY. 

The storm hath pass'd by, like an angry cloud 

Which sweeps o'er the brow of the azure heaven ; 

The sun and the earth to its sway hath bow'd. 

And each radiant beam from the scene been driven. 

All hail to the smile of the cloudless sky ! 

All hail to the sun as he rides on high ! 

All hail to the heavens' ethereal blue, 

And to nature, when deck'd in her own lovely hue ! 

It hath pass'd ! the storm, like a giant form, 

Which summons the winds from their tempest cave ; 
Which opens a grave in each ocean wave. 

And wraps the world in its shroud of gloom. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 295 

Oh ! welcome the smile of the gladden'd eath ! 
And welcome the voice of the wood-bird's mirth ! 
And welcome these varying hues which delight 
Like dawn at the close of a wearisome night. 

The clouds have pass'd, with the shadows they cast, 
And hush'd is the sound of the wind-god's power, 

And his deep, wild blast, as the tempest pass'd. 
Which rang on the ear at the midnight hour. 

Oh ! welcome the soft, balmy zephyrs of spring ! 
And welcome the perfumes they silently bring ! 
And the rosy-tinged cloudlets that gracefully glide 
O'er the fair brow of heaven in beauty and pride ! 

It hath fled in its might, the dark spirit of night, 
Which cast such a shade o'er the light of the soul ; 

It hath fled and died, while the sunset beam 

From its surface triumphantly backward shall roll. 

Oh ! welcome the smiles of a gladden'd heart ! 
And welcome the joy which those smiles impart ! 
And welcome the light of that sparkling eye 
Which tells that the storm in its dread hath pass'd by ! 

Ballston, 1838. 



EPITAPH ON A YOUNG ROBIN. 

Despite the curling lip, the smile of scorn, 
Thine early fate, oh ! hapless bird, we mourn ; 
Too soon withdrawn thy scanty store of breath, 
Too soon thy sprightly carols hush'd in death ! 
Here let us lay thee on thy mother's breast. 
Where no rude steps shall come, no cares molest, 
No cruel puss disturb thy silent rest. 

Saratoga, 1838. 



296 M'SS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



TO A MOONBEAM. 

Ah, whither art straying, thou spirit of light 
From thy home in the boundless sky 1 

Why lookest thou down from the empire of night, 
With that silent and sorrowful eye ? 

Thou art resting here on the autumn leaf, 
Where it fell from its throne of pride ; 

But oh, what pictures of joy or grief, 
What scenes thou art viewing beside ! 

Thou art glancing down on the ocean waves, 

As they proudly heave and swell ; 
Thou art piercing deep in its coral caves, 

Where the green-hair'd sea-nymphs dwell ! 

Thou art pouring thy beams on Italia's shore, 
As though it were sweet to be there ; 

Thou art lighting the prince to his stately couch, 
And the monk to his midnight prayer. 

Thou art casting a fretwork of silver rays 

Over ruin, and palace, and tower ; 
Thou art gilding the temples of former days, 

In this holy and beautiful hour. 

Thou art silently roaming through forest and glade, 

Where mortal foot never hath trod ; 
Thou art lighting the grave where the dust is laid, 

While the spirit hath gone to its God ! 

Thou art looking on those I love ! oh, wake 
In their hearts some remembrance of me. 

And gaze on them thus, till their bosoms partake 
Of the love I am breathing to thee. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 297 

And perchance thou art casting this mystic spell 

On the beautiful land of the blest, 
Where the dear ones of earth have departed to dwell. 

Where the weary have fled to their rest. 

Oh yes ! with that soft and ethereal beam, 

Thou hast look'd on the mansions of bliss, 
And some spirit, perchance, of that glorified world 

Hath breathed thee a message to this. 

'Tis a mission of love, for no threatening shade 

Can be blent with thy spirit-like hues. 
And thy ray thrills the heart, as love only can thrill, 

And while raising it, melts and subdues. 

And it whispers compassion ; for lo, on thy brow 

Is the sadness of angels enshrined ; 
And a misty veil, as of purified tears, 

Round thy beautiful form is entwined. 

Hail, beam of the blessed ! my heart 

Has drunk deep of thy magical power, 
And each thought and each feeling seems bathed 

In the light of this exquisite hour ! 
Sweet ray, I have proved thee so fair 

In this dark world of mourning and sin, 
May I hail thee more bright in that pure region, where 

Nor sorrow nor death enter in. 

1838i 



EVENING. 



O'er the broad vault of heaven, so calmly bright, 
Twilight has gently drawn her veil of gray, 
And tinged with sombre hue the golden clouds, 
Fast fading into nothing : o'er the expanse 
20 



298 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Are swiftly stealing hues, which mildly blend 

And shadow o'er the pure transparence 

Of the azure heaven. Now is night array'd 

In all her solemn livery, and one by one 

Appear the sparkling gems which deck her robe. 

Each glittering star shines brighter than its wont, 

As though some brilliant festival were held, 

Some joyful meeting in the courts above. 

Now mark yon group of amber-tinted clouds, 

Shrouding the silvery form of Luna ; 

Their melting tints vanish away, and then 

The pale, cold moon springs up unshackled 

In her vast domain. Fair empress of the sky I 

Chaste queen ! thy hallow'd beauty can impart 

A soften'd radiance to each sombre cloud 

Of melancholy night, and, like a noble mind, 

Immersed in seas of darkness, thou canst cast 

A portion of thy brilliant, mellow'd softness. 

Around the deepening gloom. While viewing thee 

A sweet and pensive calm o'erspreads my soul, 

And, conjured by thy gentle melting rays, 

Unerring memory hastens to my aid ; 

With her, I view again my own dear home, 

My native village, 'neath thy cloudless sky 

Serenely sleeping : 'tis as fair a picture 

Of unsullied peace as ever nature drew. 

Thy rays are dancing on the gentle river. 

In one unbroken stream of molten silver, 

And marking in the glassy Saranac 

Thy graceful outline, while the fairy isles 

Which on its bosom rest are slumbering 

In thy light, while the fair branches bending 

O'er thy wave, turn their green leaves above, 

And bathe in one celestial flood of glory. 

There, on its banks, I view the dear old home, 

That ever loved and blooming theatre. 

Where those I most revere have borne their parts. 

Amid its changing scenes. Before thethreshold 

Tower the lofty trees, and each high branch 



POETICAL REMAINS. 399 

Is gently rocking- in the summer breeze, 

And sending forth a low, sweet murmur, 

Like the soft breathings of a seraph's harp. 

Around its humble porch entwines the vine, 

While the sweetbriar and the blushing rose 

Now hang their heads in slumber, and the grass 

And fragrant clover scent the loaded air. 

Oh, my loved home, how gladly would I rove 

Amid thy soft retreats, and from decay 

Protect thy mouldering mansion, tend thy flowers, 

Prune the wild boughs, and there in solitude 

Listless remain, unknowing and unknown — 

Oh no, not quite alone, for memory, 

And hope, and fond delight shall mingle there. 

1838. [Unfinished.] 



A POETICAL LETTER TO HENRIETTA. 

Once more, Henrietta, I open your sheet 

To glance at its contents so playful and sweet. 

To admire the flow of its easy strain, 

And pen you an answer in nonsense again. 

Perchance you may turn from my page away. 

And with scornful lip and expression say, 

" I think she might better have spent her time, 

Than in stringing such masses of jingling rhyme;" 

And perhaps I might, — I admit the blame. 

But like others, continue my fault the same. 

However, I think such a deacon as you. 

May need the refreshment of nonsense too ; 

That a creature so sober as you are, my friend, 

Her ear to the whisperings of folly may lend. 



300 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Never mind — 'tis a fancy has cross'd my brain, 

Right or wrong, good or evil, I'll finish my strain. 

I wish you, my dear Henrietta, could know 

How much I am grieved that I now cannot go, 

That our dreams of enjoyment have vanish'd in smoke, 

And the castles we builded on vapour are broke ; 

But such are the chances of life, — it is fit 

That with stoical fortitude we should submit. 

Am I not philosophic 1 — A fortnight pass'd by 

With its fretting and grieving, its tear and its sigh ; 

Then — a month, peopled well with regrettings by me, 

And — behold me submissive as mortal can be ! 

But jesting aside — 'tis a very sad thing 

To be torn from hope's anchor, where fondly we cling. 

I too had been cherishing feelings as vain. 

Nursing hopes as delusive, as sweet, in my brain ; 

I had waited in fancy your loved form to see, 

With a heart just as happy as happy could be ; 

Had met you, embraced you, and welcomed you here. 

When lo ! the bright dream dissolved in a tear ! 

Like the gay, gorgeous bubble, which floats for awhile, 

But departs ere you welcome its hues with a smile. 

You were wishing for wings — I enclose you a pair, 

Which I hope you will use with all possible care, 

For they were not prepared in a mortal mould. 

But were form'd by a fairy in purple and gold ! 

While riding one day by the green-wood side, 

This fairy in beautiful garments I spied ; 

Her mantle with dew-drops was spangled o'er — 

She had fairies behind her and fairies before. 

And many and gay were the jewels she wore; 

But the wings which she raised to her delicate brow 

Were the purest of azure and white as the snow ! 

I bow'd at the foot of the fairy throne. 

And begg'd of her beautiful wings like her own. 

I sued for the favour in friendship's name ; 

She assented, and smiling, admitted the claim. 

All sparkling and pure as the evening star, 

I gather'd the wings from the fairy's bower. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 301 

And came home exulting, impatient to send 

The gift in its freshness and glow to my friend. 

Elated with pride I exposed them to view, 

But the touch of a mortal had clouded their hue ! 

So marvel no more at their dimness — believe 

That the very same wings are the wings you receive. 

Should my story too wild and too fanciful seem, 

Oh, call it not fiction, but name it — a dream. 

I am reading " Josephus," a famous old Jew, 

Whose name is, I doubt not, familiar to you. 

He begins with the world, and proceeds to relate 

How the Jews from a nothing grew prosperous and great ; 

How Jerusalem reign'd as the Queen of the East, 

Till her sacred religion was scorn'd and oppress'd ; 

Then murder, and rapine, and famine ensued. 

Till the fields of Judea were streaming with blood. 

How I wish you were reading it with me, my friend ; 

Your presence a charm to each sentence would lend. 

Your father's return, you remark, is the time 

To send you a budget of love and of rhyme ; 

The love be assured you will always possess. 

And you'll have rhyme enough when you once have read this. 

So you see what that love has induced me to do. 

With it maybe a. fear of your scolding too ! — 

It is evening — the close of a beautiful day. 

And the last rays of sunset are fading away ; 

Till nothing remains but a faint rosy hue, 

Just mingling in with a fainter blue. 

The shadows of twilight are closing around. 

Not a murmur is heard but the cricket's sound. 

And pensive thoughts o'er my heart-strings creep 

As the " unvoiced" breezes around me sweep. 

'Tis a tranquil hour, and I lazily lie. 

Gazing up at my ease on the delicate sky. 

With the sombre light on my dim page playing. 

And my pen through its numberless labyrinths straying. 

How gentle the spell of this exquisite hour ! 

How soothing, how sweet its mysterious power ! 



302 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

It steals o'er my heart, like a breeze o'er the lake, 

Each half-buried accent of music to wake. 

The kitten beside me hath fled from its play, 

And close in my bosom is nestling away ; 

And the trembling leaf, and the bending flower, 

And the insect millions acknowledge its power. 

How the fancy will fly from the present, and roam 

O'er each corner of earth 'neath heaven's high dome ! 

Perchance, like myself, you may cloud-gazing be ; 

Perchance, my sweet friend, you are thinking of me, 

And this scene, like a beautiful image of rest, 

Has awaked the same delicate chords in your breast ; 

And perchance — how provoking ! — that twinkling lamp-light 

Hath dissolved with its brilliance my dreams of delight, 

Hath deepen'd to blackness the mantle of gray, 

And chased all my beautiful visions away. 

So it is — they have fled — and again I descend 

To converse upon every-day themes with my friend ; 

But the end of my paper convinces me still 

That I soon must release thee, my trusty goosequill ; 

Though my breast and my head are yet aching to write, 

I must bid you, dear Hetty, a loving good night. 

If your ears are not tired of the jingling of rhyme, 

I will finish my musical letter next time ; 

In the meanwhile, believe me sincerely to be 

Your affectionate scribbler, 

Margaret M. D. 
Ballston, 183.8. 



LINES 

ON SEEING SOME FRAGMENTS FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL. 

Have these gray relics, crumbling into dust. 
Once rested 'neath Italia's burning sky 1 

Has this cold remnant of what once was stone, 
Reflected back her warm cerulean dye 1 



POETICAL REMAIJNS. 303 

Have these white fragments rested o'er the sod 

Hallow'd by Virgil's ever-sacred clay 1 
And have they mingled with the grass-grown mound 

Which o'er the classic hero's bosom lay 1 

Perhaps the crumbling stones beside me now 
Fell from the mouldering marble at his head-^ 

The icy tomb which hides his noble brow, 
For ever hallow'd by the mighty dead. 

In fancy o'er Italia's fields I roam, 

In fancy view the poet's lowly grave. 
Round which, as I in silent sorrow bend 

The flowering myrtle and the cypress wave. 

1838. [Unfinished.] 



A SHORT SKETCH 

OF THE MOST IMPORTANT IDEAS CONTAINED IN COUSIN's 
"introduction to the HISTORY OF PHILOSOPHY." 

According to Cousin, there are three elements of con- 
sciousness, three first ideas of the infinite, the finite and 
their relations succeeding each other in the above order. 
He believes, that as the history of an individual such is 
the history of mankind in general ; that as there are 
three fundamental ideas there must be three epochs of 
the world to develope those ideas. As the first idea is 
that of the infinite, the first age of the world will express 
this idea in its laws, its arts, its religion, and its phi- 
losophy : this will predominate. When fully developed, 
the idea of the finite will succeed ; action, variety, and 



304 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

liberty will take the place of slavery and immobility ; 
man will begin to find himself. All the elements of his 
nature will be brought into action, although still subjected 
to the predominating principle. When this is exhausted, 
in its turn the idea of the relations between the finite and 
infinite will come; man will join these two great princi- 
ples ; every element will assume its proper station with- 
out asserting undue authority over the others ; man will 
at once generalize and particularize ; and as this is the 
highest developement of the ideas of humanity, this epoch 
will be the last. After giving this expansive view of man 
and his destination, he proceeds to show, that different 
climates and countries are destined for the developement 
of different ideas ; that the idea of the infinite must neces- 
sarily prevail in a large continent surrounded by vast 
seas, traversed by inaccessible mountains, and divided by 
immense deserts, with a burning and enervating climate, 
where every thing leads to and expresses the idea of the 
vast, the absolute, the infinite : such a country is Asia. 
On the contrary, the idea of the finite will occupy a 
smaller country, intersected by rivers affording every 
facility of inland communication and commerce, sur- 
rounded by small seas, inviting the inhabitants to inter- 
course with neighbouring nations, and filled with beau- 
tiful and diversified scenery, all bearing the impress of 
the finite, urging to action and enterprise, and devoid of 
that solemn and sombre unity of expression which pre- 
vailed in its parent epoch : such a country is Greece. 
That position of the world destined for the developement 
of the last and most perfect epoch, must unite the two 
great external features of the former countries, as it is to 
assist in expressing the two great ideas in perfect unison 
with each other. It must combine the sublime with the 
beautiful, every advantage of internal commerce and 
high civilization with a manifest appearance of magni- 



POETICAL REMAINS. 305 

tude and duration ; it must possess a perfect and minute 
individuality with a great and striking general character ; 
a vast continent surrounded with vast oceans, containing 
mighty rivers and inland seas, broad prairies, and long 
ranges of mountains, together with fertile valleys and 
streams, and all the minor qualities of a rich and mag- 
nificent country, containing facilities for the minutest 
internal improvements, guided and governed by a lofty 
and abstract spirit of generalization — thus uniting the 
relative and the absolute, the finite and the infinite ! such 
a country is America. He then proceeds to speak of 
war, its causes, and its efi*ects. He considers it not 
only beneficial but necessary. War is a combat of ideas. 
Underneath the great and predominant idea of an epoch 
there exist minor elements in a nation, as in an indivi- 
dual : one people expresses one element, one idea ; another 
seizes upon and developes a second : these truths elevate 
themselves against each other and combat— hence war. 
When one of these ideas is exhausted it is opposed and 
superseded by a newer and better one — hence conquest. 
One idea and one nation make room for another idea 
and another nation ; one epoch is destroyed, and another 
arises. Mark the benefits of war : had it never existed 
there had been but one era of the world, and humanity 
could never have progressed. He then proceeds to jus- 
tify conquests. He considers that the event proves the 
right ; that when a newer and nobler spirit rises against 
an exhausted one, that spirit must conquer, and ought to 
conquer. He does not believe in absolute error; he 
believes every error is a part of truth, and only becomes 
error when considered alone and exclusive of all other 
truth, and raised to an undeserved superiority among the 
elements of humanity. 

1838. [Unfinished.] 



306 ^J^SS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

BRIEF NOTES FROM COUSIN^S PHILOSOPHY, 

MADE DURING THE WINTER OF 1838. 

His first position is this : as soon as man receives 
consciousness he is surrounded by objects in a world 
hostile to himself, but by exertion and developement of 
his power, he has conquered and modified matter, and 
has, as it were, impressed with his image and rendered 
it subservient to his will. The first man who overcame 
any obstacles in the way of his desires created industry, 
and the first who measured the slightest space around 
him or united the objects before him, introduced the 
science of mathematics. All these, mathematics, physics, 
and political economy, have one object, utility, or the 
useful ; but there are other relations in which men stand 
to each other, besides those o{ hurtful or useful^ the just 
and the unjust. Upon the idea of the useful, man 
altered the external appearance of nature ; upon the idea 
of justice he created a new society, maintaining their 
own rights, and respecting the rights of others. But 
man goes further : besides the hurtful or the useful, the 
just or the unjust, he has inherent in his nature the idea 
of the beautiful and its opposite. Impressed with this 
idea, man seizes, developes, and purifies it in his thought, 
until he finds that thought superior to the objects which 
presented it. Every thing that is beautiful in nature is 
also imperfect, and fades when compared with the idea 
it awakens. Thus, man not only reforms nature and 
society by industry and the laws of justice, but also 
remodels those objects which present to him the idea of 
beauty, and renders them more beautiful than ever. But 
man is not yet satisfied — he looks beyond the world of 



POETICAL REMAINS. 307 

industry and arts, and conceives God. The idea of 
God as separate from the world, but scarcely himself in 
it, is natural religion ; but he does not rest there ; he 
creates another world, in which he perceives nothing but 
its relation to God, the world of * * he expands 
and elevates the sentiment of religion. Philosophy suc- 
ceeds. Philosophy is the developement of thought ; it 
may be good or bad, but in itself it is demanded by the 
mind as much as religion, the sciences, &c. Cousin 
proves this position by a rapid examination of the wants 
of man. ##•(«:* * 



308 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



LENORE. 

A POEM. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Why should I sing 1 The scenes which roused 
The bards of old, arouse no more ; 

The reign of poesy hath pass'd, 

And all her glowing dreams are o'er ! 

Why should I sing 1 A thousand harps 
Have touch'd the self-same chords before, 

Of love, and hate, and lofty pride, 
And fields of battle bathed in gore ! 

Why should / seek the burning fount 

From whence their glowing fancies sprung ] 

My feeble muse can only sing 

What other, nobler bards have sung ! 

Thus did I breathe my sad complaint, 

As, bending o'er my silent lyre, 
I sigh'd for some romantic theme 

Its slumbering music to inspire. 

Scarce had I spoke, when o'er my soul 

A low, reproving whisper came ; 
My heart instinctive shrank with awe, 

And conscience tinged my cheek with shame. 

" Down with thy vain, repining thoughts, 
Nor dare to breathe those thoughts again. 

Or endless sleep shall bind thy lyre. 
And scorn repel thy bursting strain ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 309 

" What though a thousand bards have sung 
The charms of earth, of air, or sky ! 
A thousand minstrels, old and young, 
Pour'd forth their varied melody ! 

" What though, inspired, they stoop'd to drink 
At Fancy's fountain o'er and o'er ! 
Say, feeble warbler, dost thou think 
The glowing streamlet flows no more 1 

" Because a nobler hand has cull'd 

The loveliest of our earthly flowers, 
Dost thou believe that all of bloom 
Hath fled those bright, poetic bowers 1 

" Know then, that long as earth shall roll, 
Revolving 'neath yon azure sky, 
Music shall charm each purer soul, 
And Fancy's fount shall never dry ! 

" Long as the rolling seasons change. 
And nature holds her empire here ; 
Long as the human eye can range 
O'er yon pure heaven's expanded sphere ; 

" Long as the ocean's broad expanse 
Lies spread beneath yon broader sky; 
Long as the playful moonbeams dance, 
Like fairy forms, on billows high ; 

" So long, unbound by mortal chain, 

Shall genius spread her soaring wing ; 
So long the pure poetic fount, 

Uncheck'd, unfetter'd, on shall spring. 

' ' Thou say'st the days of song have past, 
The glowing days of wild romance. 
When war pour'd out his clarion blast. 
And valour bow'd at beauty's glance ! 



310 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" When every hour that onward sped, 

Was fraught with some bewildering tale ; 
When superstition's shadowy hand 
O'er trembling nations cast her veil ! 

" Thou say'st that life's unvaried stream 
In peaceful ripples wears away ; 
And years produce no fitting theme 
To rouse the poet's slumbering lay. 

" Not so, while yet the hand of God 
Each year adorns his teeming earth ; 
While dew-drops deck the verdant sod, 

And birds, and bees, and flowers have birth ; 

" While every day unfolds anew 

Some charm to meet the searching eye ; 
While buds of every varying hue 
Are bursting 'neath a summer sky. 

" Tis true that war's unsparing hand 

Hath ceased to bathe our fields in gore ; 
That hate hath quench'd his burning brand, 
And tyrant princes reign no more. 

" But dost thou think that scenes like these 
Form all the poetry of life 1 
Would thy untutor'd muse delight 
In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife? 

" No — there are boundless fields of thought. 
Where roving spirit never soar'd ; 
Which wildest fancy never sought. 
Or boldest intellect explored ! 

" Then bow not silent o'er thy lyre. 

But tune its chords to nature's praise ; 
At every turn thine eye shall meet 
Fit themes to form a poet's lays. 



POETICAL REMAINS, 311 

"Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles 
In all her loveliest scenes to view ; 
Nor deem, though others there have knelt, 
Thou may'st not weave thy garland too !" 

It paused — I felt how true the words, 
How sweet the comfort they convey'd ; 

I chased my mourning thoughts away — 
I heard — I trusted — I obey'd. 



DEDICATION. 

TO THE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER LUCRETIA. 

Oh thou, so early lost, so long deplored ! 

Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near ! 
And while I touch this hallow'd harp of thine, 

Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear! 

For thee I pour this unaffected lay, 

To thee these simple numbers all belong ; 

For though thine earthly form hath pass'd away. 
Thy memory still inspires my childish song. 

Then take this feeble tribute ! 'tis thine own — 
Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er, 

Arouse to harmony each buried tone. 

And bid its waken'd music sleep no more ! 

Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre 
Hung o'er thy grave in death's unbroken rest ; 

But when its last sweet tones were borne away. 
One answering echo linger'd in my breast. 

Oh thou pure spirit ! if thou hoverest near. 
Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, 

Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine. 
By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee ! 



312 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



CANTO FIRST. 

'TwAS nightfall on the Rhine! the day 
In pensive glory stole away, 
Flinging- his last and brightest glow 
Full on the restless waves below, 
As if an angel's hand had dyed 
With hues from heaven the sparkling tide ! 
The fleeting ray an instant beam'd, — 
O'er hill and vale and rock it stream'd, 
Till the dark, time-defying cliff, 
Seem'd glowing, melting into life — 
Then swiftly fading, glided o'er, 
And left it lonelier than before. 

The distant hills of sombre blue. 
Tinged with that rich and varying hue. 
Now darker and more mingled grew; 
The Rhine, enrobed in shadows gray, 

Roll'd on its giant path. 
Lashing the rocks which barr'd its way, 
Now curling graceful, as in play. 

Now roaring as in wrath ! 
While trembling in the tinted west. 
The fair moon rear'd her silver crest, 
And fleecy clouds, as snow-wreaths pale. 
Twined on her brow their graceful veil ; 
And one by one, with tiny flame. 
Night's heavenly tapers softly came, 
And toward their mistress trembling stole, 
Like pleasing memories o'er the soul. 

And shade by shade her brilliance grew. 
As past away that sunset hue. 
Till o'er the heaving Rhine she stood, 
Bathing in light its sleeping flood ; 
Pouring her full and melting ray 
Where rock and hill and forest lay, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 

And where, in clust'ring trees embower'd, 

An ancient castle proudly tower'd : 

O'er the gray walls her glances play'd, 

O'er drawbridge, moat, and tower they stray'd, 

As striving with that holy light 

To pierce the works of earthly might, 

And cast one heavenly beam within 

The abode of human toil and sin. 

Can sin and sorrow and despair 
Be frowning 'neath a sky so fair 1 
Can nature sleep while tempests roll 
Impetuous o'er the tortured soul ) 

Mark yonder taper, dimly beaming, 
From the lone turret faintly streaming, 
Casting athwart the brow of night 
Its wavering and uncertain light ! 
Beside that torch sit guilt and care 
And dark remorse, and coward fear; 
And fever'd thought is borrowing there 
The haggard visage of despair ! 
There, with his aged fingers prest 
In clasp convulsive to his breast, 
Bows, as with secret guilt and pain, 
The master of this broad domain. 

His ample robes around him stray, 
His locks are deeply tinged with gray, 
And his dark, low'ring brow is fi-aught 
With marks of avarice and thought. 
At every sound which meets his ear, 
He starts instinctive as with fear, 
And his keen eye roams here and there, 
With anxious and expectant air. 

His seem'd a mind of timid mould, 
Sway'd by some spirit, fierce and bold, 
21 



313 



314 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Which lean'd to virtue, but could yield 

When vice to avarice appeal'd — 

Which gazed on crime with shrinking eye, 

But was too cowardly to fly. 

He started — heard, with troubled air 

A tread upon the turret stair ; 

Wiped from his brow the gathering dew, 

And closer still his mantle drew. 

When wide the massive portal flew ! 

As wondering at this entrance rude, 
The aged host in silence stood ; 
While with a stern, unchanging look, 
The stranger dofi''d his ample cloak. 
Unloosed his bonnet's clasping band, 
And toward the baron stretch'd his hand. 
His host the friendly gesture saw. 
But shrank in hatred or in awe — 
Then starting, as with eager haste. 
The proffer'd hand he warmly prest, 
And smiled a welcome to his guest. 
The latter mark'd, with flashing glance, 
That shrinking fear, this mean pretence, 
And then resumed the smile of scorn 
His curling lip had lately worn. 

Uninjured by the frosts of time. 
He seem'd advanced in manhood's prime ; 
His form was tall, his mien erect, 
His locks, though matted by neglect, 
Curl'd closely round his swarthy brow, 
While his dark orbits flash'd below. 
Nature, with fingers firm and bold. 
Had made a form of finest mould. 
And painted on his childish face 
The outline of each manly grace ; 
But pride and art, those imps of sin. 
Had crept the empty shrine within ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 315 

Had taught his heart each serpent wile, 
And lent his lip its fiendish smile. 

His brow was knit with thought and care, 
And dark design was scowling there ; 
His glance inspired both hate and fear — 
Now withering with its biting sneer, 
Now flashing like the mid-day sun, 
Which scorches all it looks upon. 

Boldness and artifice combined 
To form the dark, perverted mind. 
Within that goodly frame enshrined ; 
And he, whose steps in early youth 
Some kindly hand had led to truth. 
With active brain, and heart that burn'd, 
From that unpointed pathway turn'd, 
Unwarn'd, unguided, plunged within 
The blackening gulf of shame and sin. 

On his dark face the baron's eye 
Gazed anxious and inquiringly, 
And when he mark'd his silent guest 
Draw forth a casket from the vest 
Which folded loosely on his breast. 
With half-conceal'd, convulsive gasp. 
He stretch'd his eager hand to clasp 
The sparkling treasure in his grasp. 

But with a smile more full than speech. 
The stranger drew it from his reach ; 
On the rude bench the casket laid, 
Beside his dagger's glittering blade ; 
Drew near his host, who quaked with dread. 
And thus, in low, stern accents said : 

" Thou deemest right — that gem doth hold 
A something dearer far than gold ; 



316 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

To thee, more precious than thy life, 
To me, the cause of toil and strife ! 
'Tis that, which in another's hands, 
Would tear thee from these goodly lands, 
Send thee and thy fair daughter forth. 
From all thou thinkest life is worth, 
From titles, honours, lands, and hall, 
And to young Erstein yield them all, 
Which in thine own will banish fear, 
And make thee lord and master here. 
Unchallenged by the rightful heir : 
(Then in a low, impressive tone,) 
But hold, — that prize is still mine own /" 

" Villain !" — " Nay, curb that wrath of thine 

Hast thou forgot one word of mine 

Could hurl thee from thy high estate. 

To beggar'd infamy and hate 7 

Could I not rend the shrouding veil. 

And tell the wondering world the tale ; 

How when thy kinsman died in Spain, 

Thou seized upon his fair domain. 

His titles, and his wealth ; despite 

His heir, the youthful Erstein's right 1 

Could I not tell, how many a year, 

With artful wile and coward fear. 

Thou sought'st with vain and mean pretence 

These proofs of his inheritance, 

That thou might'st thus for aye destroy 

The claims of this romantic boy f 

Think'st thou I will this power forego, 

Another's lands on thee bestow. 

The rightful heir for thee despoil, 

And gain but hatred, fear and toil ? 

" Speak not, old man ! By heaven ! I swear, 
Yon casket and its contents there 
Were not more safe from grasp of thine, 
Though buried in the heaving Rhine, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 317 

If thou grant not, unquestion'd, free, 
The guerdon I shall claim of thee !" 
" Ask aught," the baron faltering cried ; 
" Leave me my gold ! take aught beside !" 
The stranger knit his swarthy brow, 
" Old dotard ! yes, thy gold and thou ! 
Swear by the God whom thou dost fear, 
Swear by that gold thou dost revere, 
My suit is granted !" and his eye 
Flash'd on the baron fearfully. 

" Herman, I swear !" he mutter'd low, 
And the blood left his cheek and brow ; 
Scarce said he, ere his fearful guest 
The casket's jewell'dlock had press'd, 
And from its case of richest mould. 
Drawn forth a written parchment fold. 
With eager hands, and sparkling eyes, 
The aged baron seized the prize. 
Tore it in haste, and opening wide 
The vine-wreath'd lattice at his side, 
With fix'd, exulting gaze, consign'd 
Its fragments to the midnight wind. 

That scene and act, that form and face, 
A painter's hand had loved to trace : 
The moon, as if the scene to shroud, 
Had sought the bosom of a cloud ; 
The murmuring waves, the rustling trees, 
The fitful sighing of the breeze, 
And the hoarse owlet's distant tone, 
Blent in one soft and wailing moan, 
Disturb'd that midnight calm alone. 

His brow with burning drops bedew'd, 
The old man at his lattice stood. 
And scann'd with sparkling, lingering eye, 
Each fragment as it floated by ; 



318 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And Herman mark'd his host the while 
With sneering and contemptuous smile : 
At length, with mien of joyous pride, 
The baron hasten'd to his side, 
And thus in tones of triumph cried : 

" Now have they perish'd ! all that might 

Prove to the world young Erstein's right ! 

His claim is as it ne'er had been. 

And these broad lands are mine again ! 

When first by youthful pride impell'd, 

This princely barony I held, 

I knew my kinsman lived, and knew 

These fatal proofs existed too ; 

But all my cunning found not loliere. 

Thus lived I years, in doubt and care, 

In trembling terror, lest my name 

Some evil chance should brand with shame ; 

Or more, lest all my hoarded gold 

Should vanish from my loosening hold. 

" Blest be the day, good Herman, when 
Thou camest from thy mountain den. 
And said that thou thyself had known 
The secret which I deem'd mine own ; 
Despair and anguish made me dumb ; 
I thought the fatal hour had come. 
O'erwhelm'd in grief I little knew 
Thy heart, so noble and so true, 
Nor thought the object of my fears. 
Could crown the fruitless search of years ! 
But knows young Erstein of his claim 
To Arnheim's barony and name ] 
Will he behold his goodly lands 
Seized by a stranger's trembling hands V 

" He knows it not ; romantic, gay, 
To distant lands he roam'd awayj 



POETICAL REMAINS. 3] 9 

And sought adventure and renown 
In nobler countries than his own. 
One month return'd from foreign war, 
He lives within his lonely tower; 
Scouring the forest far and near, 
And hunting down the antler'd deer ; 
But should he search the written past. 
And learn this fatal truth at last, 
His heart and arm are strong to fight 
In brave defending of his right." 

" Ay, should he so, good Herman !" — Now 
A livid paleness robed his brow ; 
But quick returning crimson spread. 
While thus his dark accomplice said : 
" And canst thou not the path descry ? 
Why then, good baron, he must die ; 
This barrier in thy way / hate, 
And dark and wild shall be his fate. 
He scorn'd me, and I vow'd to seal 
My vengeance on this faithful steel. 
And happy shall that moment be 
Which bows his lofty crest to me. 
But night wears on — I must away — 
Thou hast that casket's price to pay." 

The old man raised his troubled eye. 

As longing, fearing to reply, 

Then slowly gasp'd, with effort bold, 

" Ay, ay, what wouldst thou, land or gold 1" 

"Thou hast a beauteous daughter— she 

The guerdon of my toil must be ! 

Her hand must be unite with mine 

Before another sun decline 

On the broad bosom of the Rhine !" 

With smother'd shriek and heaving breast 
The fiither knelt before his guest. 



320 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" My child ! my own Lenore ! thy bride ! — 
Ask aught, ask every thing- beside. 
The dews which wet the summer flower 
Are not more sinless than Lenore ! 
Through years of guilt and care, my child 
Cheer'd my soul's darkness till it smiled ! 
Now that my locks are turn'd to gray 
Thou canst not tear that child away ! — 
Her gentle purity hath been 
A star on life's beclouded scene, 
Music her voice, and heaven her eye, — 
Oh leave her, leave her, or I die I" 

With kindling glances Herman heard 
Each smother'd groan, each anguish'd word, 
And then replied, in tones of scorn, 
" Up from thy knees ! hast thou not sworn 
To grant my suit "? dost thou forget 
Thine all is in my clutches yet 1 
I swear that she, and only she. 
Shall buy my bond of secrecy I" 

" Forget ! why can I not forget 1 — 
Would we had never, never met ! 
Leave me, for God's sake, leave me now ! — 
Oh my torn heart, my burning brow !" 
" Say thou wilt make thy daughter mine 
Before another sun decline, 
And I depart, to come no more, 
Until that joyous bridal hour 1" 

" Wretch ! fiend ! I will !" — The accents hung 
As loth to leave his faltering tongue ; 
But ere had ceased that lingering tone, 
He turn'd and found himself alone. 
The taper's waving glimmer fell 
On the rude pavement of the cell, 
Where with his trembling fingers prest 
Upon his heaving, labouring breast, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 32I 

With air distracted, yet subdued, 
That wretched, erring parent stood. 

His eye was fix'd, and bent his ear, 
His guest's retiring steps to hear, 
Though like a quick and piercing dart, 
Each sent a quivering through his heart ; 
When first that wild vibration ceased, 
The floor with rapid steps he paced ; 
And thoughts of agonizing pain 
Flitted like wild-fire through his brain. 

How should he give his child, his pride, 

To be a branded outlaw's bride 1 

How could her purity have part 

In Herman's cold, perverted heart 1 — 

Then rush'd back memories of youth. 

When earth was heaven, and man was truth, 

And her he loved, too pure for life. 

Too gentle for its toil and strife, 

She, who, unheeding slander's tongue, 

Still to her lord had fondly clung — 

Her, he had dared to scorn, deride. 

Her, who had suffer'd, wept, and died! 

While o'er his mind these memories stole, 
He groan'd in agony of soul, 
" My child ! no — never shalt thou be 
Heir to thy mother's misery ! 
These aged eyes had rather weep 
O'er thy dark bed of endless sleep." 
Then o'er these better feelings came 
The ghosts of penury and shame ; 
He saw his gold another's prey, 
His lands, his titles torn away, 
Himself the theme of public scorn. 
His daughter friendless and forlorn. 
And then he whisper'd, " I have sworn !'* 



322 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But why this picture longer view 1 
Or why this painful theme pursue 1 
Oh ! rather let us weep that he 
Who might allied to angels be 
Will sully thus the spark divine, 
Imprison'd in its earthly shrine, 
And in compassion drop the veil 
O'er this sad portion of our tale. 

Now let us seek the lonely bower 

Where, at this silent midnight hour, 

So sweetly sleeps the fair Lenore. 

A silver lamp, with flickering beam, 

Now dies, now starts with sudden gleam, 

Diffusing o'er the vaulted room 

Or wavering light, or partial gloom. 

Near, on the oaken table, lie 

Her crucifix and rosary, 

And the small lute, whose golden string 

Hath echoed to her evening hymn. 

Her head is resting on her hand, 
Her hair, escaping from its band. 
Falls in rich masses on her neck. 
Her fair white brow, and flushing cheek ; 
The long, dark lashes of her eye 
On their fair pillow trembling lie. 
Her lips half part, and you can trace 
A smile of pleasure on her face. 

She dreams — her soul hath pass'd away, 
Far from its lovely shrine of clay. 
Scenes of enjoyment to explore. 
Where waking fancies dare not soar. 
She dreams — what soft, subduing thought 
Hath her unfetter'd spirit caught ? 
She whispers " Erstein !" — ah ! sweet one, 
Thou know'st not what this hour hath done ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 

What cloud hath dimm'd thy fortune's star, 
And his thou lovest dearer far ! 

Dream on ! for thou wilt wake to weep, 

When morn dispels that balmy sleep, 

And in thy pilgrimage of pain, 

Thou ne'er may'st dream so sweet again. 

Hark ! 'tis the night-breeze, as it twines 

Round the tall lattice, wreath'd with vines. 

Again ! arouse thee, sweet Lenore, 

A step is in the corridor. 

It pass'd along the echoing floor, 

And paused beside the maiden's door. 

And from beneath, a brilliant stream 

Of wavering light was seen to gleam. 

The door unclosed — the torch's fire 

Reveal'd its bearer — 'twas her sire ! 

With trembling hand he strove to shade 

The beams which through the apartment stray'd. 

And o'er the placid sleeper play'd ; 

Then to her side he softly came. 

And moved the shadow from its flame. 

She woke — her night-robe closer drew, 
A hurried glance around her threw ; 
Then, with a troubled, anxious gaze, 
She scann'd each feature of his face. 
" Why come at midnight to thy child. 
With cheek so pale, and eye so wild ?" 
" My daughter, rise ! — thou need'st not fear, 
But 1 must speak, and thou must hear." 

Then gave he to her listening ears 
A tale of doubts and cares and fears ; 
Of future wretchedness and pain, 
Of threaten'd penury and disdain. 
And exile from their native hearth. 
And how a generous friend stepp'd forth, 



323 



324 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Turn'd from their heads this direful fate, 
And freely ransom'd his estate. 

And how, in an unguarded hour. 
When gratitude alone had power, 
He swore by every sacred name 
To grant whatever he might claim; 
How, while he listen'd in despair. 
Did Herman claim his daughter fair ; 
And he was bound by all that's dear, 
That solemn promise to revere ; 
And then, with tears and sighs he said, 
" If thou dost love this aged head. 
Preserve my wealth, my peace, my life, 
And be my kind preserver's wife." 

With cheeks and brow as snow-wreath pale. 

His daughter heard this fearful tale. 

So suddenly that dread blow came. 

It struck like palsy on her frame. 

Through her veins- crept an icy chill, 

As if her very heart stood still. 

And nought was heard the calm to break. 

When her old sire had ceased to speak; 

But though her fix'd and glaring eye 

No outward object could descry. 

Before her spirit's glance, a throng 

Of vivid pictures swept along. 

She saw the shaded bower, the grove 
Where first young Erstein " whisper'd love ;" 
She saw his dark, reproachful eye. 
Upraised to hers in agony ; 
And then a sterner vision came 
Of him her fancy dared not name. 
She saw his tall and muffled form. 
She saw his withering smile of scorn. 
She saw — " Lenore !" — her father spoke — 
The spell which bound her tongue was broke. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 325 

She knelt his bending form beside, 
And thus in faltering accents cried : 

" My father ! canst thou doom so sore 

A trial to thine own Lenore 1 

Is there no spot of refuge still 1 

Is poverty so great an ill 1 

To pomp and wealth thy heart is cold — 

Yield up to him thy hoarded gold ! 

What carest thou for state or pride, 

If / am ever by thy side 1 

Give him thine al], and let us go 

Far from this darkest, deadliest foe ! 

Thou shalt have peace, and I will be 

A more than comforter to thee !" 

" My child, I cannot change thy lot — 
Thou speakest of thou know'st not what 
How wouldst thou hear thy father's name. 
Branded with infamy and shame ]" 

To his dark mantle she had clung. 
Now to her feet she swiftly sprung ! 
A tear had trembled in her eye. 
But now she dash'd it firmly by; 
Her cheek had blanch'd with fear before, 
But now that paleness was no more ! 
With form erect, and glance of fire, 
She gazed upon her cowering sire. 
As though her piercing eye could see 
His heart's remotest secrecy. 

A dark and dread suspicion stole 
Like burning lava o'er her soul. 
" Why is that fear upon his face 1 
Why should my father dread disgrace 1 
He, I had thought, no shame could dim, 
Why, why should shame descend on him 1 



326 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 



What is this mystery, and how 
Can I avert this dreaded blow 1 
I know not, and because mine eye 
May not the source of ill descry, 
Shall I the power of good forego, 
And plunge him into deeper wol" 
Her pure affection answer'd " No ! 



I" 



If he were noble, as she deem'd, 
The path of right most open seem'd, 
To chase each shadow from his eyes, 
E'en at this fearful sacrifice ; 
If he deserved the meed of shame, 
Was not that pathway still the same 1 
A moment's calm was in her brain, 
She dared not pause for thought again, 
But springing to her father's side. 
She whisper'd, " I will be his bride !" 

She heeded not his fond caressing, 
She heeded not his parting blessing — 
The die was cast ! — and there she bent, 
Fix'd as a marble monument, 
Nought but her quick and gasping breath 
Revealing there was life beneath. 

Her father left that fatal spot — 
She was alone, yet knew it not, ] 
Till his quick footstep as it pass'd, 
Dissolved the fearful charm at last. 
And sent a wild and burning glow 
Through the full arteries of her brow ; 
Then came affliction's sweet relief, 
Weeping, soft child of stern-eyed grief, 
That lulls the passions into rest. 
And soothes the mourner's tortured breast. 

When the first agony was past. 

Her gushing tears flow'd long and fast, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 327 

And with thanksgiving fervent, deep, 
She own'd the privilege to weep. 

Alas ! frail flower ! her life had been 

One bright, unchanging, tranquil scene ; 

Loving and loved, as wild bird gay, 

Her frolic childhood pass'd away ; 

And when her stronger mind could feel 

More deep emotions o'er it steal, " • 

When her pure heart look'd forth for one, 

To rest her pure affections on, 

Then did her trusting spirit find 

An answering chord in Erstein's mind ; 

And childhood's laughing glance and tone 

Gave place to deeper joys alone. 

And only would her cheek grow pale 
To hear some wild, romantic tale ; 
And only for imagined wo 
Her sympathetic tear would flow — 
Her youthful heart had never known 
To sigh for sorrows of its own. 

The past was all one vision bright, 

A storehouse of untold delight. 

To which her mind at will might stray, 

And bear unnumber'd gems away ; 

With trusting hope and buoyant glee. 

She gazed into futurity. 

Nor thought that time's advancing wing 

A darker moment e'er could bring. 

The dream now faded from her eyes, — 

She woke to life's realities ! 

And feelings pure, and strong, and deep. 

Rose from their long, inactive sleep, 

And proudly did the maiden own 

A strength within, till then unknown, 

That which, secure in virtue, rose 

To combat with assailing foes. 



328 ^"SS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Oft would her fearful fancy shrink 
Back from the gulf's tremendous brink, 
And oft to reason's glance would rise 
The madness of the sacrifice. 
But o'er her father's aged form 
There hung some dark, portentous storm! 
A daughter's choice, a daughter's will 
^^^ Could ward from him that nameless ill ! 
And thus the hapless maiden sought 
To quell each wild, rebellious thought. 

And morning came, and soft and still 
She dawn'd above the distant hill. 
Her wreaths of trembling light to twine 
On the blue waters of the Rhine. 
The mists which on his bosom lay, 
Pass'd like an infant's dream away, 
And left the sun's awakening beam 
To frolic with his mighty stream. 

As though to greet the dawning day, 
The rolling billows curl'd in play ; 
And wild and murmuring tones were borne 
Forth on the balmy breeze of morn. 
The towering cliffs, so dark and wild, 
On its rude shores in masses piled, 
Touch'd by her gentle influence, smiled ; 
And the young flowers the rocks beneath 
Woke at the dawn's reviving breath, 
And on their leaves, so soft and bright, 
Hung tears of worship and delight. 

When all is gay with nature's smile. 
Forgive me if I pause awhile, 
And turn from passion, grief, unrest. 
To muse upon her tranquil breast. 

Nature ! thou ever rollest on, 

With winter's blast and summer's sun. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 329 

Untouch'd by passion's raging storm, 
Rearing on high thy mystic form, 
Springing anew to brighter life 
Amid the world's enduring strife ! 
Man lives, and breathes his fleeting day, 
Now sinks 'neath sorrows chilling sway, 
Now basks in pleasure's golden ray, 
Then, like a snow-curl, melts away. 
The piles he rear'd in swelling pride. 
To strive with time's o'erwhelming tide. 
Proving the weakness of his trust. 
Sink, like their builders, in the dust. 

But while the fabrics, rear'd so high. 

In ruins on thy bosom lie, 

Thou, like some great and mystic page, 

Unfoldest still from age to age, 

Bearing in every line conceal'd 

The wisdom ages could not yield ; 

Thy flowers shall bloom, thy mountains soar, 

Till rolling earth shall be no more ; 

Thine ocean waves shall sink and rise 

Till Time himself exhausted dies ; 

While on thy mighty bosom spread 

The crumbling relics of the dead ! 

How doth this sweet and solemn hour 

Hold o'er the heart its mystic power ! 

Bidding each wilder tumult cease. 

To passion's whirlwind whispering " Peace !" 

Calming the frantic flights of joy. 

And bright'ning sorrow's downcast eye ! 

Oh ! may it shed its influence o'er 
The tortured heart of poor Lenore I 
She who was wont at earliest dawn 
To chase the wild bird o'er the lawn, 
While the young flowers their fragrance cast 
As on her fairy footstep past ! 
22 



330 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Who now, unheeding bird or flower, 
Steals forth to seek her favourite bower, 
To bid each cherish'd scene farewell. 
And calm her heart's convulsive swell. 

There, in her childhood's buoyant days, 
Oft had she sung her artless lays ; 
And still, as time roll'd onward, there 
At morn and evening would repair, 
To rear, in fancy, forms most fair, 
Nor dream that she could find them — air ! 

Once more, within her loved retreat. 

She lean'd upon its flowery seat, 

And mark'd the clustering vines, which sent 

A grateful perfume as they bent ; ♦ 

Above the eastern hills of blue 

The sun's broad orb more brilliant grew. 

And many a rich and gorgeous ray 

Full on the glistening forests lay ; 

But buried in her lonely bower. 

She heeded not the passing hour ! 

V The vines beside her loudly stirr'd. 
But not a sound her ear had heard ; 
A step seem'd hast'ning to the spot. 
But still the maiden mark'd it not — 
And yet more near the intruder came ; 
A well-known voice pronounced her name : 
She started lightly from her seat. 
And blush'd — 'twas Erstein at her feet ! 

As the bright sun-hues of the west 
Fade from the snow-wreath's pallid crest. 
Flitted that blush her pale cheek o'er, 
And left it paler than before ! 
Oh, had you seen his youthful form, 
Adorn'd with every manly charm. 
And known his heart, so bold and warm, 



POETICAL REMAL\S. 

And, like Lenore, that heart had proved, 
You would not marvel that sJie loved. 

Bred to a fierce and martial life, 
Nurtured for years on fields of strife, 
A spirit fiery, bold, and high, 
Was pictured in his flashing eye, 
And you might think its glance implied 
A soul of haughtiness and pride ; 
But when some gentler feelings stole 
O'er the deep waters of that soul, 
Then fast that quick and burning ray 
Melted in tenderness away. 
And lovelier seem'd its gentle beam. 
Contrasted with that brilliant gleam. 

When first a brave young soldier, come 
From clashing sword and pealing drum, 
O'er his own land once more to rove, 
Then first his soul awaked to love ! 
And oh, what floods of pure delight 
Burst in upon his spirit's sight ! 
What depths of joy, unknown before, 
Oped in the presence of Lenore ! 

Her gentle influence suppress'd 
Each sterner passion in his breast. 
And while controlling, quell'd, subdued 
Each fee]ing haughty, wild, or rude. 
From her, unwitting, he could learn 
Her father's temper, dark and stern ; 
And v;hile had glided day by day 
In tranquil happiness away, 
He dared not break the magic spell 
His ardent feelings loved too well, 
By laying thoughts and hopes so bold 
Before a sire so stern and cold, 
Who would have deem'd it daring pride 
To claim his daughter as a bride ; 



831 



332 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

He who had nought to aid that claim 
But love, his honour, and his name. 

Thus he was wont, when morning gray 
Cast o'er the hills its earliest ray. 
Clad in the huntsman's sylvan gear, 
To chase ('twas said) the wild-wood deer ; 
But ever, when his searching eye 
The towers of Arnheim could descry, 
He left his faithful steed to wait 
Within a thicket's dark retreat. 
And bounded lawn and streamlet o'er 
To snatch one moment with Lenore. 

This morn, with bosom bounding high, 
With springing step and sparkling eye, 
He came to seek her, — but in vain ; 
He pass'd her favourite haunts agam. 
Till winding down a shaded way. 
Which o'er the cliff's dark bosom lay, 
He turn'd the castle's rearmost tower, 
And found this lone, sequester'd bower. 

I may not tune my youthful string 
That scene of hapless love to sing ; 
Song cannot well those thoughts reveal 
The heart ne'er felt, and cannot feel ; 
Let fancy then her garland weave. 
And fill the trifling void I leave. 

Suffice it that with bearing high. 
And sad composure in her eye. 
And throbbing nerves and bursting heart, 
Well did that maiden act her part. 
And gave her tale of grief and fear 
To Erstein's wondering, listening ear. 
Not so the youth, — a burning glow 
Was mounting fiercely to his brow, 
And grief and anger in his eye. 
Were struggling for the mastery. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 333 

When Herman's name escaped her tongue, 
Quick to his feet he wildly sprung. 
" In foreign lands that wretch I met ; 
Fiend ! sordid villain ! lives he yet ? 
Oh ! were the scoffer here to meet 
From this strong hand his well-earn'd fate, 
How few would be the moments given 
To make his spirit's peace with heaven ! 

" But thou, Lenore ! my steed is nigh, 
And I toill save thee ! — Dearest, fly !" 
" No ! Erstein, no ! I'd rather die ! 
My fate is fix'd, my lot is cast. 
Its keenest bitterness is past ; 
Though her heart break, the poor Lenore 
Must think of thee and love no more ! 

" Oh, leave me ! 'tis my prayer, my will ; 
Make not my task more dreadful still : 
Thou knowest more than I would tell, 
Erstein, away ! farewell, farewell 1" 
With trembling hand, the cavalier 
Dash'd from his eye the starting tear, 
Bow'd on her hand his burning head, 
And ere her heart could throb, had fled. 

END OF CANTO FIRST. 



The notes have paused — the song hath died away. 
And wouldst thou wake the trembling tones again 1 

And while the minstrel pours his wandering lay 
Bid thy warm heart re-echo to the strain 7 

Wouldst hear the sequel of this simple tale, 
And list attentive to the voice of wol 

Weep with afiection, or with fear turn pale. 
And smile when riseth joy's triumphant glow 1 



334 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Then will I touch the quivering- harp once more, 
While fancy spreads her rainbow-tinted wing, 

O'er the dark vale of buried years to soar, 
And back to life their faded shadows bring ! 

And thou must gently glance its errors o'er, 
Should the untutor'd bard uncouthly sing. 



CANTO SECOND. 

Oh, darkly the shadows of evening fell 

On forest and mountain, on streamlet and dell. 

And the clouds, in masses of sombre hue, 

O'er the couch of the morning their draperies threw ; 

And their shade fell dark on the Rhine below, 

Whose billows heaved proudly and slowly, as though 

The giant heart of the tempest-god 

Was beating strong 'neath its swelling flood. 

Its voice came up with a sullen roar 

As the waves dash'd fierce on the rock-bound shore, 

And the wild-bird scream'd as he skimm'd them o'er. 

While the vessel which flew o'er its surface that day, 

With her white wings furl'd, on its dark bosom lay, 

Just kissing the foam with her bending side, 

As if owning the power of the lordly tide. 

The morning rose meekly, and softly, and fair, 

But at evening the frown of the storm-god was there, 

And gladness and beauty fled back from his eye. 

Like the smile from the spirit when sorrow draws nigh. 

Where the sunbeams had wreathed round the mountain's tall 

crest 
Now floated a mantle of darkness and mist, 
And the wing of the tempest did fearfully fall 
O'er the arches and towers of that time-honour'd hall. 

The portal was shut, and the drawbridge was raised. 
And no gleam of a torch from the banquet-hall blazed ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 335 

But with faces of gloom, and stpns measured and slow, 
The warders were pacing the gateway below, 
Now silently marking the clouds overhead, 
Now whispering in accents of sorrow and dread. 

The hall was deserted ; the court-yard alone 

Heard an echoing trod on its pavement of stone, 

And parties of menials were gathering there 

With faces of mystery, faces of care. 

Not a voice was heard but in murmurings low, 

Not a torch was seen with its cheerful glow. 

Save where a ray was streaming o'er 

The ancient chapel's massive door, 

And wandering with its glimmer faint 

O'er sculptured cherubim and saint. 

'Twas an ancient pile, and the creeping vine 
Had begun o'er its mouldering arches to twine. 
And the long bright grass unmark'd had grown 
On the broken pavement of crumbling stone ; 
And the rude remains of a ruder day, 
Shatter'd and torn 'neath its vaulted roof lay. 

'Twas a solemn scene, when the ancient pile 
Was glittering bright in the morning smile. 

And bold in nerve and in heart was he, 
Who would dare to walk in its haunted aisle ! 

For oh, it was fearful there to be 

When the night was falling gloomily ; 
When the tempest shriek'd round its massive wall, 
And darkness enrobed it like a pall. 

Why then doth light unwonted shine 
From the gilded lamps on the ruin'd shrine I 
And why o'er the rest of the baron's hall 
Is it darkness and silence and dreariness all 1 
And why with that anxious and sorrowful mien. 
Do the menials gaze on the desolate scene ? 



338 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Alas ! those chapel walls this night 

Must witness a dark, unholy rite, 

And the gale, which shrieks in its fitful start, 

Must sing the wail of a broken heart ! 

And on that sacred altar, where 

So ofl the suppliant breathed his prayer, 

A young and ardent soul must lay 

A deeper sacrifice to-day — 

Upon its marble bosom fling 

The blushing flowers of life's, warm spring, 

And all the radiant garlands wove 

By buoyant hope and guileless love. 

Alas, that man's unhallow'd hand 
The spirit's sacred veil should rend, 
And for his own dark purpose tear 
The warm and glowing treasures there ; 
Then as m mockery dare to twine, 
Upon his Maker's holy shrine. 
Those pure and fond affections, given 
To make this weary earth a heaven. 

When last those crumbling walls had heard 

Or muffled tread or whisper'd word, 

A funeral wail had fill'd the pile, 

A train of mourners fiU'd the aisle, 

And there in solemn pomp interr'd 

A distant kinsman of their lord. 

Thus still upon the shrouded wall 
Hung the black draperies, like a pall. 
In long unmoving masses, save 
When the chill wind its folds would wave, 
And swelling slow tlie dismal screen. 
Betray the shatter'd stones between. 

Tall torches burn'd the shrine before, 
Casting their rays the chapel o'er. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 337 

And shedding pale and sickly light 
Upon the scowling brow of night ! 
While, from each lofty arch, the eye 
Could mark the thick clouds passing by, 
In blackening masses wildly driven 
Athwart the frowning face of heaven. 

The vaulted ceiling echoed round 

Each clanking tread, or mutter'd sound, 

And the blast which crept o'er the pavements bare, 

And waved the torches' flickering glare, 

Wail'd in a sad and thrilling tone, 

Like a departed spirit's moan. 

Beside the altar stood its priest. 
His wan hands folded on his breast, 
The quivering torchlight o'er him playing, 
His gray locks round his forehead straying. 
And his eye wandering here and there, 
With anxious and unsettled air ; 
And ever, as its glance would fall 
On Herman's form, so grim and tall, 
He mutter'd, turn'd in shuddering haste, 
And sign'd the cross upon his breast. 

Well might the priest instinctive turn. 
From gazing on a face so stern ; 
For oh, it told of storms within. 
The strife of passion, pride, and sin ; 
More fearful, more appalling far, 
Than the fierce tempest's raging war. 

With hurried steps he paced awhile 
The grass-grown pavements of the aisle. 
And on the open portal nigh 
His keen glance fell impatiently, 
Till his dark brow yet darker lower'd. 
And his hand fiercely grasp'd his sword. 



338 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

" If he should dare deceive me ! then 
He'll find the lion in his den !" 
Scarce were the startling- accents o'er, 
When darkening shadows fiU'd the door ; — 
It was the baron and Lenore. 

A large dark mantle, closely drawn, 
Conceal'd the maiden's fragile form ; 
But her measured step was firmer far 
Than the trembling tread of her aged sire. 
And she came with a calm and unfaltering air 
To offer up all that was dear to her there. 

And when she stood the shrine beside, 
A sad and self-dovoted bride. 
She clasp'd her hands, and raised on high 
The thrilling glance of her tearless eye, 
And the stern bridegroom shrunk below 
That look of fix'd and speechless wo. 

But the keen pang pass'd quickly o'er. 
And left her tranquil as before : 
Her pallid fingers gently press'd 
The clasping jewel on her breast. 
And the dark mantle falling back, 
Reveal'd her bridal robe of black ! 
The massive folds hung drooping there 
Around her form, so slight and fair, 
As the sad cypress in its gloom 
O'er the white marble of the tomb. 

In unconfined and native grace 
Her long dark tresses veil'd her face. 
Contrasting with the cheek and brow 
So pallid and so deathlike now, 
And casting round her, as they stray'd, 
A waving and a dreamlike shade. 
Thus stood she, motionless and still. 
Like some pale form of Grecian skill. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 339 

Placed by the matchless sculptor there, 
A breathing- image of despair. 

One torturing-, agonizing day- 
Had quell'd the heart so light and gay, 
And given her mien a bearing hig-h 
Of calm and thoughtful dignity. 

The baron started as his eye 
Fell on her sombre drapery : 
" Lenore," he whisper'd, " why to-day 
Assume such ominous array'? 
Couldst thou not find a bridal dress 
More fitting such a scene as this 1" 
She bent her dark and earnest gaze 
A moment on her father's face, 
As if her senses could not hear 
The words which fell upon her ear, 
Then said, with quick, convulsive start, 
"And wouldst thou gild a bleeding heart 1 
A broken spirit wouldst thou fold 
In sparkling robes of tinsell'd gold 1 
'Twere mockery ! this is fittest guise 
To deck a living sacrifice." 

The baron turn'd in sudden thought 

To Herman's towering form, and sought 

To melt that heart, more hard than steel, 

By one long look of mute appeal. 

As half expecting to receive 

Some blessed signal of reprieve ; 

But his knit brow and flashing eye 

Reveal'd his dark and stern reply. 

And the priest oped the sacred book 

With pale and hesitating look. 

The thunder's deep and muttering tone 

Broke on the listening ear alone ; 

He paused, bent low his moisten'd brow. 

And read with quivering voice and slow. 



340 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

While yet the feeble accents hung 
Unfinish'd on his faltering tongue ; 
Through the tall arches flashing came 
A broad and livid sheet of flame, 
Playing with fearful radiance o'er 
The upraised features of Lenore, 
The shrinking form of her trembling sire, 
The bridegroom's face of scowling ire, 
And the folded hands, and heaving breast. 
And prophet-like mien of the aged priest ! 

'Twas a breathless pause, — but a moment more, 
And that fierce, unnatural beam was o'er, 
And a stunning crash, as if earth were driven 
On thundering wheels to the gates of heaven, 
Burst, peal'd, and mutter'd, long and deep, 
Then sinking, growl'd itself to sleep. 
And all was still ; — the priest first broke 
Th' oppressive silence as he spoke : 
" Both heaven and earth their powers unite 
Against this dark, unhallow'd rite ! 
A voice without, a voice within, 
Hath told me that the deed were sin ! 
Though death and danger bar my way, 
I will not — dare not disobey !" 

A cloud more dark than the tempest now 
Was gathering sternly on Herman's brow : 
*' Priest ! madman ! hypocrite ! proceed ! 
Or blows shall mend thy coward creed !" 
" For God's sake, peace !" the baron cried, 
And closer drew to Herman's side. 
" One moment, peace ! for hark ! I hear 
Loud cries come nearer and more near !" 

" Fool ! 'tis the wailing of the blast, 
Which sweeps these echoing ruins past ! 
I brook no dallying ! Deal thou fair, 
Or by yon heaven, old man, I swear, 
Thou shalt have reason to beware !" 



POETICAL REMAINS, 341 

Still did the cowering- baron stand, 
With fixed eye and upraised hand, 
As one who bends an earnest ear 
Some faint and distant sound to hear. 

And while he listen'd, by degrees 

That sound came swelling on the breeze, 

Now low and hoarse, now shrill and loud. 

Like mingled voices of a crowd; 

And as more near the tones were heard, 

Did Herman fiercely grasp his sword, 

As if preparing to chastise 

Whate'er should bar his destined prize ! 

And louder still the clamour rose, 

Like mingled sounds of shouts and blows. 

And on that tide of tumult came 

The baron's and the bridegroom's name. 

One moment struck with mute surprise, 
Each raised to each his wondering eyes ; 
But Herman, roused to action first. 
Forth from the group inforiate burst ; 
When, ere the baron reach'd his side. 
The low-brow'd portal open'd wide. 
And a menial, pale with breathless haste. 
Wounded and bleeding, forward press'd : 
" Fly to the rescue, baron, fly ! 
Ere all thy faithful followers die ! 
For armed men the moat have pass'd. 
Have gain'd the inner court at last. 
And fight and clamour for thy guest !" 

A wild and bitter laughter rung 
From Herman's lips ere forth he sprung. 
" And so my comrades come to trace 
Their worthy leader's lurking-place 1 
'Tis well I not yet my race is run. 
And dearly shall my life be won I" 



342 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The baron and his guest have gone ; 
The bride and priest are here alone ! 
How doth that fragile plant sustain 
Its courage in this hour of pain 7 
Perplex'd, bewilder'd, and amazed, 
Upon the shifting scene she gazed, 
And only felt, with quick delight, 
That he whose presence seem'd a blight 
To chill each heart with shuddering fear. 
That he no more was lingering near. 

She breathed one deep and thrilling groan, 
And sank upon the shatter'd stone ! 
She had nor power nor will to rise. 
But with clasp'd hands, and straining eyes 
Fix'd on the portal, did she wait 
The coming crisis of her fate. 

The wind rush'd in from the open'd door, 
And the red torchlight was no more, 
And the rude pile was dark, save where 
The lightning spread its ghastly glare, 
Or from the crowded courtyard came 
Some broad and glancing stream of flame. 

The wounded man's expiring groan 
Seem'd echoed from the roof of stone ; 
And louder yet the piercing din 
Burst on the listening pair within. 
The stone-paved court alternate rang 
With clashing steel, and shout, and clang ; 
And waving wildly to and fro, 
The torches spread their fiery glow. 
Casting o'er every point of sight 
A glaring and unearthly light ; 
While, as the fearful shouts did rise 
In blended tumult to the skies. 
The spirit of the midnight storm 
Rear'd on the clouds his black'ning form. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 343 

And with each cry which swell'd the gale 
Mingled his wild and shrieking wail. 

Now closer drew the assailing band, 
With sword to sword, and hand to hand, 
And fiercely toward the chapel press'd, 
Where stood the baron and his guest. 
Herman, with fix'd and cautious eye, 
Beheld his furious foes draw nigh, 
And vow'd in this unequal strife 
Not he alone should part with life. 

Nearer they came, with shout and cry, 
" Down with the traitor ! caitiff, die !" 
And if a moment more had sped, 
The wretch had number'd with the dead ; 
When, with a voice deep-toned and loud, 
A tall form issued from the crowd, 
Press'd firmly through the rushing tide, 
And springing close to Herman's side, 
In calm commanding accents cried : 

" And are ye men 1 Bear back, I say ! 
Ye throng like tigers on their prey ! 
Bear back a space, and he or I 
In fair and equal fight shall die !" 

As waves retire with sullen roar. 
From meeting with the rock-bound shore. 
The crowd bore back with mutterings low. 
In waving columns, long and slow. 
And stood, with eager gaze, to wait 
The youthful champion's coming fate. 

The stranger raised his sword, when nigh 
There burst a low and thrilling cry ; 
He turn'd — a wretch unseen before, 
Still linger'd by the chapel door, 



344 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

And raised in air his gleaming blade 

Above the baron's aged head. 

One spring — one stroke — with piercing yell, 

And long deep groan, the miscreant fell ; 

And the young warrior stood before 

His dark-brow'd combatant once more ! 

Herman, with eager look, intent 
Upon his foe his keen eye bent ; 
And while iie thus his form survey'd, 
His quivering lip his rage betray'd ; 
Then forth in furious haste he sprang, 
Till the young stranger's armour rang 
With his quick strokes' incessant clang. 

Regardless to preserve his own, 
He sought the stranger's life alone, 
With panting breast and flashing eye, 
And all a madman's energy ; 
While calm and firm his foe repaid 
Each stroke with true unerring blade. 

A few, but fearful moments pass'd, 
Till blind with headlong rage at last, 
Herman, with desperate fierceness press'd. 
And aim'd a quick blow at his breast ; 
The youth beheld — sprung lightly round, 
Dash'd the raised weapon to the ground. 
And while the fragments scatter'd wide, 
He sheathed his sword in Herman's side ; 
Then bending o'er his fallen foe, 
Whisper'd in accents stern and low, 
" Herman ! thy miscreant life I spare ! 
But should we meet again — beware !" 
Then gliding through the low-arch'd door 
His manly form was seen no more ! 

With straining eye and changeless mien 
Lenore had mark'd this fearful scene. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 345 

Till her chilPd heart seem'd palsied there, 

With terror bordering on despair. 

But when the gallant stranger came, 

A something whisper'd Erstein's name. 

And when beneath the dubious light 

She saw him conqueror in the fight, 

Her heart seem'd bursting with delight. 

Hope, with its trembling radiance, stole 

O'er the dark desert of her soul — 

Her head droop'd lightly on her breast. 

As when an infant sinks to rest ; 

Her heart gave one convulsive thrill, 

Leap'd— flutter'd wildly— and was still. 

The courage grief could not destroy 

Bow'd to intensity of joy. 

The priest, unheeding all beside. 

Bent sadly o'er the fainting bride. 

With mystic sign and mutter'd prayer, 

And all an anxious father's care ; 

But as he knelt, absorb'd the while, 

A quick step echoed through the aisle — 

A burst of joy assailed his ear ; 

He turn'd — the stranger youth was near ! 

A moment more — his stalwart arm 
Had raised the maiden's drooping form, 
And turning swift, his eagle eye 
Roam'd o'er the walls inquiringly. 
The priest observed his doubtfiil air. 
And clearly read his meaning there : 
Trembling, he raised the massive pall 
Which hung beside the crumbling wall, 
And oped a secret door that led 
Within a thicket's tangled shade. 

The youth bow'd low his plumed head. 
And 'neath the ruin'd portal fled ! 
The priest conceal'd it as before. 
And turning, past the draperies o'er, 
23 



346 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

But breathed a low and smother'd cry, 
As, fix'd upon that secret door, 

His own met Herman's baleful eye. 

It burn'd with hatred's living flame, 

And rage convulsed his giant frame, 

A curse hung quivering on his tongue ; 

Each nerve to dark revenge was strung ; 

And the full arteries of his brow, 

Were swelled like livid serpents now. 

The boiling blood with sudden start 

Had gather'd fiercely at his heart, 

And left his cheeks and lips a hue 

Of ghastly and unearthly blue. 

But quick the coward tide return'd, 

And through his veins like wildfire burn'd 

And o'er his features crept the while. 

Their sneering and revengeful smile — 

When in that crowded court he fell 

Beneatli that foe he knew too well, 

He sought to find a safe retreat 

From clashing swords and trampling feet — 

And while he lean'd, with whirling brain, 

The portal's sculptured arch beside, 
Saw with a rage surmounting pain. 

The flight of Erstein and his bride. 

And where hath he fled with his lovely one, sayl 

And where are they wending their perilous way 1 

The lover hath mounted his faithful steed. 

He is bounding away with the lightning speed ! 

One arm is supporting the rescued bride, 

One hand is at freedom his bridle to guide. 

And his spurs are dash'd in the charger's side. 

Beneath them the turf, and above them the sky. 
Away and away on their pathway they fly ! 
The sound of the tumult grew fainter and low. 
And faded in distance the torches' red glow, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 347 

And in silence unbroken the fugitives sped, 
Save when the low thunder was growling o'erhead, 
Or the tempest was wailing, now shrill and now deep, 
As it crept in the arms of the morning to sleep. 

While the black clouds were rolling in masses away, 

O'er the hills of the east rose a faint streak of gray ; 

And as onward they flew, on the dim air was borne 

The soft cooling breath of a bright summer's morn ! 

Their speed as they bounded the forest path o'er 

Recall'd the faint throb to the heart of Lenore, 

But her senses bewilder'd long laboured in vain 

To dispel the wild fancies which thronged on her brain ; 

And when she awoke to the real at last, 

Oh what mingled emotions were stirr'd in her breast, 

Till her heart o'erflowing found soothing relief 

In tears of united thanksgiving and grief! 

She remember'd the scene in the old ruin'd aisle. 

And silently pray'd for the victor the while. 

Then she thought of her sire, and she shrank from his side. 

And " My father ! my father !" she bitterly cried. 

" Fear not for your father ! yon furious band 

Sought nothing but haply his gold at his hand ! 

It was Herman they sought, and they long'd for the blood 

Of that traitor alike to the vile and the good !" 

'* And whither art bearing me, Erstein, and why ] 
And where shall Lenore for a resting-place fly '?" 
" We are hasting away to my rude mountain tower ! 
'Tis a rugged retreat for so fragile a flower ; 
But my sister shall cherish the blossom with care, 
Till it blooms again, brighter and sweeter than e'er." 
" And how didst thou come in that moment of gloom, 
To snatch me away from my terrible dooml" 

" Lenore, my beloved ! thou rememberest the hour 
When I parted from thee in thy myrtle-wreath'd bower ; 



348 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

That hour, which was fated awhile to destroy 
Each hope of the future, each vision of joy ; 
I mounted my charger, I knew not how, 

And I rode like a madman, I knew not where ; 
For my brain was hot with a fiery glow, 

And my heart was chill'd with a cold despair ; 
I abandoned the reins to my faithful steed, 
And we bounded away with a maniac speed, 
Till exhausted and worn with exertion we stood 
On the barren skirts of a lonely wood ; 
'Twas deep immersed in a mountain dell, 

On the rocky banks of a brawling stream, 
Which o'er a dark precipice rapidly fell, 

With dashing and foaming, and murmur and gleam. 
I threw myself down by a rock-cover'd cave, 
And silently bent o'er the breast of the wave, 
And more calm in my veins did the life-current flow, 
While the spray dash'd cool on my feverish brow. 
Of Herman I thought, and my pulses beat higher, 
And my bosom throbb'd wild with the tempest of ire I 
But then o'er my fancy that loved image crept, 
And forgive me, Lenore, if in anguish I wept ! 
While musing thus sadly, I started to hear 
The sound of rude voices assailing my ear. 
I turn'd, — from the cavern beside me they came, — 
And the speaker named Herman's detestable name ! 
I listen'd — but, dearest, so stainless thou art, 
In each word of thy lips, and each thought of thy heart, 
That could I repeat, I should tell thee in vain 
Of a language so loose, so impure, and profane ! 
Then listen, Lenore, as I briefly shall tell 
The meaning I gain'd from their words as they fell. 
They were robbers — a fearful and ruffian band, 
Most sordid of heart, and most bloody of hand, 
And Herman hath been, for full many a year, 
Their chief in each deed of rebellion and fear ! 
Yes ! he whose presumption hath claim'd thee as bride 
To that lawless and desperate band was allied ; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 349 

Meet comrades for one whose degenerate mind 

Is stain'd with each crime which can blacken mankind. 

Thus a stranger to mercy, a stranger to fear, 

He had rush'd on, uncheck'd, in his reckless career, 

Till, unheeding the pledge which at entrance he gave, 

In secret he fled from the robbers' wild cave, 

Bearing with him away their iniquitous spoil, 

The fruits they had reap'd from unhallow'd toil ! 

Oh long did they labour, but labour'd in vain, 

Some trace of their villanous chieftain to gain, 

Till a comrade return'd w^th the tidings at last. 

That the Baron of Arnheim received him as guest, 

And this eve was to join his perfidious hand 

To the fairest flower of his native land. 

Then they vow'd revenge, and they fearfully swore 

That long ere the shadows of midnight were o'er, 

They would give to their leader, false Herman, the meed 

He had won by the coward and traitorous deed ! 

They resolved to assemble at eventide there, 

And in arms to the Castle of Arnheim repair. 

To recover the gold they had lost, and assuage, 

In the blood of their chieftain, their hatred and rage. 

Thus said they, Lenore, and now eager I heard 

Each ruffian voice, and each half-suppress'd word ; 

For while o'er my senses their dark import stole, 

A light broke in on my desperate soul, 

And methought I discovered a path to guide 

My steps once more to my dear one's side. 

1 could join their band at the castle gate ; 

I could rescue thee from thy dreadful fate,^ 

And while they were in fury revenging their wrong, 

And searching for gold 'neath each time-worn wall, 
I could plunge unseen 'mid the motley throng, 

And bear away that which was dearer than all ! 
Oh, blest be our Lady ! who guided me well. 

And supported thy soul on this terrible night ! 
But Lenore ! my beloved ! thy cheek is too pale. 

And the tear steals adown it— oh say, was I right?" 



350 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

She spoke no word, but he read her reply 

In the timid glance of her downcast eye, 

And the blush which sprung to her varying cheek, 

In token of thoughts which she dared not speak ! 

He saw the glance, and he felt its charm, 

And he folded the mantle more close round her form. 

And silently spurring his charger again, 

They bounded away over forest and plain. 

And softly and meekly the morning light 

Stole up from the arms of that storm-toss'd night, 

And faintly trembled its dawning beam 

On each sparkling valley and purling stream, 

And danced on the leaves of the forest trees. 

As they slowly waved in the sighing breeze, 

And with dripping branches bended low. 

As if weeping the fate of each fallen bough. 

" Lenore !" said Erstein, " Lenore, behold. 

How each cloud from the glance of the morning hath roU'd 

How the storm of the midnight has glided away. 

And no traces are left of its passage to-day. 

Save a pensive hue, which is stealing o'er. 

And making all nature more fair than before. 

" The whispering gale that is floating past, 

Is all that remains of the howling blast, 

And the sparkling waves of yon tiny river 

Rush onward more swiftly and gaily than ever ; 

While the emerald turf on the graceful hill 

Outrivals in splendour the dew-dripping rill. 

And the trees round its base with their broad arms cling, 

Like the diamond crown of a giant king, 

'Tis a beautiful type of our fate, Lenore, 

For our storm of misfortune has glided o'er. 

And the joyous morning of hope and love 

Is dawning our radiant pathway above ; 

And life shall flow on with its dancing stream, 

With murmur and sparkle, with music and gleam. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 35 1 

And the glittering dew-drops alone shall last, 

To remind our souls of the storms that have past." 

A sunbeam of gladness, a smile from the soul, 

O'er the face of Lenore insensibly stole ; 

They were slowly ascending a verdant hill. 

At whose base there rippled a murmuring rill. 

And she gazed on the vale they had left till her sight 

Seem'd melting in tears of exquisite delight. 

But she suddenly utter'd a smother'd cry, 

As a figure advancing arrested her eye ; 

'Twas a horseman, who spurr'd on his foaming steed 

With a desperate madman's fiery speed, 

While far beyond, on the level green, 

A waving line was distinctly seen. 

Scarce had the shriek escaped her tongue, 
Ere to his feet young Erstein sprung. 
And led the wearied steed, which bore 
The fragile form of poor Lenore, 
Where a dark thicket rose in pride 
The leaping, brawling stream beside. 

" 'Tis Herman ! and the hour is come 
To seal or his or Erstein's doom ! 
If victor, well ! but if I die 
Thine only resource is to fly.'* 

He said, and press'd her hand the while 
With fervent grasp and cheering smile ; 
Then ere had fled that earnest tone, 
The trembling maiden was alone. 

Meanwhile, with fierce and maniac haste, 
The furious Herman forward press'd, 
Clear'd the small stream with sudden bound, 
And leap'd impetuous to the ground. 



352 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

Oh, 'twas a dark and fearful sight ! 
His writhing face was ghastly white ; 
His horseman's cloak was deeply dyed 
With the red life-blood from his side ; 
His step was hurried and untrue ; 
His scowling brow was bathed in dew, 
' And when he pass'd his fingers o'er, 
They left its surface stain'd with gore. 

Still did his rigid features wear 
Their darkly biting, withering sneer, 
And in his eye a fiendish glare. 
Revenge and hate had kindled there. 
He waved his glancing sword on high, 
And cried, " Defend thy life, or die !" 
" I fight not," Erstein answer'd slow, 
" A frantic or a bleeding foe !" 

A demon's rage fiU'd Herman's eye. 
Which flash'd around him fearfully. 
" Then in thy coward folly die !" 
Thus did he yell, and with the word 
Plunged at his breast his ponderous sword. 
The youth, who mark'd each look with care, 
Turn'd — and the weapon smote the air ; 
Then, ere a second stroke was made. 
Swift as the wind unsheath'd his blade ; 
And springing forth, with gesture light, 
Closed firmly in the desperate fight. 

How did those sounds of doubt and fear 
Ring on the maiden's listening ear ! 
How did her veins convulsive swell, 
As, fast and wild, the stern blows fell ! 
But passion's rage must yield at length 
To calmer reason's vigorous strength, 
And Erstein's steel again was dew'd 
With the fierce Herman's gushing blood. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 353 

Breathing- one quick and startling- yell, 
Upon the trampled sward he fell, 
And the dark life-stream g-urgling- fast, 
Blent with the dew-drops on his breast, 
And, as the current swifter sped, 
Tinged the light sparkling stream with red ! 
His clench'd hands held, with rigid clasp. 
The turf and flowers within their grasp. 
And the cold, clammy, deathlike dew 
In large drops gather'd on his brow. 

Then a dark shade of fell despair 

Chased from its glance its frenzied glare. 

And yielded to his upraised eye 

A look of helpless agony ; 

It roll'd around from place to place. 

And rested last on Erstein's face ; 

Then shrunk from the moment's encounter again 

With a mingled thrill of remorse and pain ; 

Then he strove to speak, but the accents hung 

Unform'd on his quivering, palsied tongue. 

Erstein the wounded sufferer gave 
A cooling draught from the crystal wave. 
And raising his form on the rivulet's brink, 
Oh long and deeply did he drink, 
Then, as o'ercome with torturing pain, 
Sank on the crimson'd turf again. 

Convulsions o'er his features past. 

And, with a fearful strength, at last 

He started — clench'd his blood-stain'd vest. 

And groan'd, " This mountain on my breast !" 

Erstein bent o'er him — " Herman ! now 

We stand no longer foe to foe ; 

Tell me, if to one earthly thing 

Thy parting spirit still doth cling ; 

One deed, which, ere thy race was run. 

Thou wouldst have purposed to have done ; 



354 ^IISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

One word of penitence to send 
An injured or deluded friend ; 
And here I pledge my promise free. 
That act shall be perform'd for thee ! 
Aught that may cast a softening ray 
Around thy spirit's fearful way, 
Or soothe that dark and drear abode 
Unbrighten'd by the smiles of God !" 

" Of God ! Who spoke of God l—I own 
No God but reckless chance alone ; 
No hell more rife with pain and fear 
Than that which burns and tortures here ! 
Though I could sink to black despair, 
If I met not his spirit there ! 

" Away, away ! each look, each word 
Pierces my bosom like a sword ! 
'Tis thou whom I have injured, thou 
Whose arm, in justice, laid me low ! 

" Nay, leave me not, but come more near, 
For my breath fails me — bend thine ear ! 
And ere from life for ever freed. 
My soul shall boast one blameless deed ! 
Child of a rich and ancient line, 
Arnheim, its titles, lands, are thine !" 

" Thou ravest !" — " List ! if there be time 
Thine ears shall drink my tale of crime ! — 
I seem'd thy father's friend, and he 
Believed me all fidelity ; 
He perish'd in a foreign land. 
And, Erstein, by this blood-stain'd hand ! 
Ay, shudder ! — mark me well, and trace 
The murderer's impress on my face ! 
Yes ! 'neath a friend's disguise, there stole 
A venom'd serpent to his soul ! 
In youth he dared to taunt me — I 
Vow'd for the insult he should die ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 

" It's very memory pass'd from him ; 
And when in after years I came, 
Conceal'd by friendship's mask and name, 
He took me to his bosom, while 
Reveng-e was lurking 'neath my smile. 
He died '—start not, but bend thine ear, 
For I must speak and thou shalt hear ! 
Ay, though it rends my blacken'd heart, 
And tears each gaping wound apart ! 

" He died !— I sought, with keenest hate. 

The proofs of this thy fair estate ; 

I kept the parchments, that I still 

Might guide thy fortunes at my will. 

I hated— for thy features bore 

The smile, the glance thy father's wore. 

" Avert that look ! the memory brings 
A thousand thousand scorpion stings ! 
Ay, ay ! 'tis right, 'tis meet thy steel 
This last and deadliest blow should deal ! 
'Tis right thy grateful hand should send 
The death-blow to thy father's friend ! 

" But I must on !— I left that shore— 

I sought my native land once more : 

I jom'd the robbers' desperate band ; 

I found the baron on thy land ; 

'Twas then I saw, I loved, Lenore ! — 

Oh heavens ! and must I tell thee more ? — 

I play'd the baron false, and he, 

The fool ! the idiot ! trusted me ! 

" Here, on my cold and labouring breast — 

Raise me — here, here the parchments rest ! 

But my chiird limbs grow stiff— the sand 

Of life is running fast — the hand 

Of death is plunging deep his icy dart — 

His grasp is cold— cold— cold upon my heart !" 



355 



356 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

The youth, with fix'd and wondering eyes, 
Bent o'er his form in mute surprise ; 
When loud, derisive laughter near, 
Burst in discordance on his ear. 
"He rose, and saw before him stand 
The dying Herman's ruffian band. 

Returning from their midnight broil. 
And laden with its varied spoil. 
To their wild cave they led m haste 
The aged baron and the priest. 
But when in distance they beheld 
Their leader's flight, so fierce and wild, 
They turn'd, pursued, and came to see 
His last, expiring agony ; 
And now, with laugh of scornful hate, 
Like fiends, they triumph'd in his fate. 

Those tones, with direst vengeance rife, 

Recall'd their comrade's flickering life. 

With them unnumber'd memories came — 

Again he raised his bleeding frame. 

Gazed wildly on the furious band. 

And shook his clencli'd and stiffening hand. 

His cheek burn'd with a livid glow, 

A black scowl gather'd on his brow, 

A fierce revenge his visage fired — 

He groan'd, fell backward, and expired. 

Silence her breathless mantle threw 
A moment o'er that lawless crew, 
And awe one instant gain'd the place 
Of triumph on each swarthy face. 
But as the sun-ray glances past 
The rugged cliff"'s unbending crest. 
So did that faint beam disappear. 
Lost in a dark, demoniac sneer. 
The baron and the priest alone 
With trembling heard that dying groan, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 357 

And mark'd witli awe-struck pitying gaze, 
His stiffen'd form and ghastly face. 

Erstein first broke the silence dread, 
And to the outlaw'd chieftain said : 
" Thou seekest spoil ! dost thou behold 
This jewell'd cross, this purse of goldl 
These will I gladly give to gain 
Two aged captives of thy train. 
High ransom take, and yield to me 
The priest's and baron's liberty." 

" Yon priest I had design'd to save 

The contrite sinners in our cave. 

Yon miser lord, to gather in 

The gold our midnight frays shall win ! 

This had J purposed, but in truth 

Thy sword hath served us well, brave youth, 

By sending to the fiend who gave, 

The spirit of that scowling knave. 

Bestow on us that glittering store. 

And swear to seek our spoil no more. 

Then will we freely yield to thee 

The aged captives' liberty." 

The pledge was given — the band released 
The aged baron and the priest. 
And sweeping round a thicket nigh. 
Their dark forms vanish'd to the eye. - 
With heaving breast and clouded brow 
The baron wander'd to and fro, 
And wrung his hands with gestures wild, 
And wept and cried, " My child ! my child !" 

Swiftly the youthful Erstein fled 
To the dark wood's embowering shade, 
And soon as swift return'd to lead 
The fair Lenora's wearied steed. 



358 MISS MARGARET DAVIDSON. 

With joyful cry and agile bound, 
The maiden sprang- upon the ground. 
And clasp'd her father's neck around. 

And o'er and o'er again he press'd 

The rescued maiden to his breast, 

And gazed upon her features bright 

With frantic transports of delight. 

" My child ! my love ! my own Lenore ! 

Come to thy father's heart once more, 

Nor fear that thou again shalt be 

A living sacrifice for me ! 

But vi^ho preserved thee 1 where didst thou 

Find refuge on that night, and howl" 

Her cheek with crimson blushes warm. 
She turn'd her eye on Erstein's form. 
" And by what title shall I bless ?"— 
" Erstein !" — He groan'd — " Alas ! alas ! 
It is the very name, 'tis he 
Whom I have heap'd with injury ! 
A voice, too long a slighted guest. 
Once more is whispering in my breast ! 
And I will listen — will obey ; 
How shall I all these wrongs repay ]" 

The youth's dark eye beam'd purest fire, 

And his quick pulses bounded higher. 

" Oh let me, let me call thee sire !" 

The baron bent his wondering gaze 

Upon the speaker's beaming face ; 

The youth was at his feet — his brow 

Was burning with a crimson glow. 

His lips were parted, and his cheek 

Flush'd with the thoughts he could not speak, 

And his dark eye was raised above. 

With mingled glance of hope and love. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 359 

He turn'd to Lenore, and her downcast eye, 
Her trembling frame, her heaving sigh, 
Her cheek, now flush'd, now deadly pale, 
In silence told the maiden's tale ! 

" My children, be happy ! henceforth to your sire 
Shall your peace be his highest, his noblest desire ; 
He shall see you enjoy, with a rapture tenfold, 
Those affections he well nigh had barter'd for gold ! 
And sorrow's dark pinion shall shadow no more 
The loves of brave Erstein and fair Leonore." 



1838. 



THE END. 



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men, and things, displayed in every part — for just reflections on 
events which belong to all periods — for vigorous opinions on cele- 
brated authors and the tendency of their writing, and, above all, for 
an elevated, manly, and moral tone, calculated to discourage vice 
and inspire virtue in every walk and relation of life. 

"These volumes will long continue to be an ornament to the 
polite literature of our time." — London Literary Gazette. 



CECIL, 

OR 

THE ADVENTURES OF A COXCOMB. 

A NOVEL. 

He was such a delight — such a coxcomb — 
Such a jewel of a man! — Byron^s Journal. 

In Two Volumes, 12mo. 
" The author of this brilliant novel, figures with all the supremacy 
of a master. The work is perfectly fresh in style, and is full of 
graceful vivacity." — Morning Herald. 



MR. COOPER'S NEW NOVEL. 



THE DEERSLAYER, 

OR 

THE FIRST WAR PATH ; 

A TALE OF THE EARLY DAYS OF NATTY BUMPO AND CHINGACHGOOK. 

By the author of " The Last of the Mohicans,^' " The Prairie,^'' " Pio- 

neers^'' &c. &-c. 

In Two Volumes, 12mo. 

*' Here is decidedly the best novel of the season, whether published 
in England or America. In it, old Leatherstocking appears again, 
and is as entertaining as ever. As far as we have read, the story is 
sustained with unflagging, we may say, with thrilling interest; and 
we promise ourselves a treat, such as we have not for a long time 
enjoyed, in finishing the perusal of the tale. Give us Mr. Cooper 
after all, for the sea or Indian life. As a depictor of incidents, amid 
the roar of the ocean storm, or the dangers of our savage wilds, the 
author of the ' Pioneers' is pre-eminent. Few writers could have 
kept up the interest in one character so long as Cooper has sustained 
it in that of Leatherstocking. We cannot see that, in the present 
volumes, there is any falling off in this respect. Chingachgook, the 
Mohican, whose death-scene is so powerfully painted in ' The Prai- 
rie,' also appears in the present tale. 

" This novel completes — the author says — the ' Leatherstocking' 
tales. Cooper has now followed the borderer through every stage 
of his existence, from the young scout to the trapper on the western 
prairies. The five tales may be considered as forming one continued 
story, in which the heroes and heroines of the several plots, are ac- 
cessaries only to the history of the ' Hawkeye,' around whom the 
chief interest, after all, revolves. The idea of carrying one character 
through several tales is one successfully achieved by Shakspeare; 
and we may also say, successfully imitated by Cooper. 

" We repeat, no tale of the season equals ' The Deerslayer.' Every 
American especially should read this last work — the copestone of a 
series — by the first living novelist of his country." — Saturday Even- 
ing Post. 



A FINE EDITION OF THE 

LEATHERSTOCKING TALES: 

EMBRACING 

The Deerslayer, The Pathfinder, The Pioneers, The Prairie, and 

The Last of the Mohicans. 

In Five Volumes, 12mo., bound in embossed cloth. 



TALES AND SOUVENIRS 



A RESIDENCE IN EUROPE. 

By the Lady of a distinguished Senator of Virginia. A beautiful 
volume, in embossed cloth. 



KEBLE'S CHRISTIAN YEAR. 



THOUGHTS IN VERSE, 

FOR SUNDAYS AND HOLYDAYS THROUGHOUT THE YEAR. 
BY THE REV. JOHN KEBLE, 

PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. 

" In quietness and confidence shall be your strength." — Isa. xxx. 15. 

A new edition, with a farther revision ; and an Introduction by 
the Rev. George W. Doane, Bishop of New Jersey. In one neat 
volume. 

" These verses are singularly beautiful in conception and compo- 
sition, and breathe the purest poetic taste, and the most sincere and 
fervent spirit of piety." — Gazette. 



THE POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

BISHOP HEBER. 

In one neat Volume, to match Keble's Christian Year. 



MRS. MARCET'S STORIES 



YOUNG CHILDREN. 

CONTAINING 
WINTER, SUMMER, 

SPRING, AUTUMN, 

With numerous Woodcuts. In four parts, or neatly done up in one 
volume. 



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